


Six Months to Midnight

by Shotgun_in_the_Impala



Series: Unchronicled: The Lost Gospel of Layla Parker [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bobby Singer being a BAMF, Canon-Typical Violence, Dean Being Dean, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, F/M, Gen, Hunter Sam, Hurt Sam Winchester, I just go where the story takes me, I need someone to read my stuff and write tags for me, I really have no idea how to tag this, I'm really bad at tagging, I've learned not to argue with these characters, Plot, Plot continuation, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Stubborn Dean, The Trickster being his tricky self, WTF, What Have I Done, episode insert, every tag I can think of gives something away!, is that enough generic information?, maybe I should say Attempted Humor, sorta?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-18 11:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5927107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shotgun_in_the_Impala/pseuds/Shotgun_in_the_Impala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tuesday may be over but Wednesday only brought more of the same.  Thursday brings the knowledge that Sam isn't going to wake up from the nightmare this time.   So what happens over the next six months?   How will Sam know what he's facing when the Trickster finally decides to finish the joke?  </p><p>The only way back is forward and no one tracks a Trickster alone...</p><p>But how will Dean react when he finds out what Sam has done?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. -Now and Then - One Hell of a Wake Up Call - Turnabout - Missing You - Now You See 'Em -

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: Rape/Non-con and abortion referenced. Nothing graphic but it is mentioned briefly. 
> 
> Some excerpts of dialogue from the show are provided to give a sense of timing. I claim no rights to that or the SPN characters of course.

            _“It’s good to see you, boy.”_

_Bobby speaks as he crosses the quiet, dusty room and gathers Sam in a relieved hug, patting the tall man’s back heartily. Sam’s expression is grim and wooden. Standing stiffly, hands at his sides, Sam makes no move to return Bobby’s embrace. The only movement visible on the large man is in his eyes and the clenching of his jaw as Bobby hesitantly releases him and steps back. Sam’s eyes track Bobby’s movements and he fixes a flat, impassive stare on the older man._

_“What are we doing here, Bobby?” Sam asks._

_Bobby shakes his head slightly as if he knows that the answer he has is not one Sam wants to hear._

_“It’s the last place we’re sure the Trickster worked its magic.”_

_“So?” Sam’s brow twitches upwards impatiently but he quickly reins in his expression._

_“So you want this thing?” Bobby asks as he begins to back away towards the circle he has drawn on the floor of the room behind him. “I found a summoning ritual to bring the Trickster here.” He stops next to the ornate bowl he has placed within the circle and glances back at Sam._

_Sam steps slowly into the room, glancing over the gathered supplies._

_“What do we need?”_

_“Blood,” Bobby responds after a moment’s hesitation._

_Sam barely flinches, only nods slightly as he asks: “How much blood?”_

_Bobby gives a barely visible shrug, “Ritual says near a gallon and it’s gotta be fresh too.”_

_Sam’s gaze travels up from the assembled occult paraphernalia to lock with Bobby’s._

_“Meaning we have to bleed a person dry.” His voice is still calm, hardly acknowledging that murder is being proposed._

_“And it’s gotta be tonight,” Bobby says as he nods in resigned agreement, “or not for another fifty years.”_

_“Then let’s go get some,” Sam replies as he turns for the door…_

* * * * * Six Months Earlier * * * * *

As the sun crept over the horizon, Sam reflected bitterly that he could find no joy in seeing Thursday’s arrival. He’d spent hundreds of Tuesdays just trying to get to Wednesday and now all he wanted was to go back. It had been approximately 15 hours since Dean had drawn his last breath on the rain-soaked pavement outside that shabby motel in Broward County, FL; it had been 12 since Sam started digging that lonely hole some 150 odd miles from that bloody patch of blacktop. There was something about seeing the new day dawn that cemented the realization that Sam wouldn’t be waking from the nightmare this time.       

            When the morning light had begun to paint the sky with whispers of pink and orange, Sam finally managed to tear himself away from the jury-rigged cross which he’d erected there in the Florida backwoods and headed for a hotel. Sam almost always slept in hotels when he wasn’t travelling with Dean; unlike his brother he didn’t feel a constant necessity to sleep within a few yards of the Impala and he liked the extra anonymity.

            Once he was checked in, Sam showered, clothed himself and sank onto edge of the bed. He sat there for hours, almost catatonic, hardly blinking, hardly seeming to breathe as he stared blankly at the curtains over the window across from him, watching the grey dawn fade and the sun slowly creep upwards over the fabric.

            He couldn’t go to Bobby for help. Sam would tell him about Dean’s death but he couldn’t get him involved in this hunt. The Trickster knew Bobby; he’d be expecting Sam to go to him. He had to assume the Trickster would know about Ellen and Jo. Bringing in any of his and Dean’s known associates would be risky.

            A thought prickled the back of his mind and Sam shoved aside the grief and pain and anger, smothered them and let the tiny idea be heard. When it spoke, it said a name, a name of someone new, someone only Bobby knew about, someone no one talked about because of Dean’s alternately dismissive or annoyed reactions.

            Sam’s jaw clenched with resolve and he reached for his phone. The only way back was forward.

_* * * * *_

            The rattle of Layla’s primary cellphone vibrating noisily against the wood of the bedside stand echoed through the drab motel room. Her consciousness was dragged kicking and screaming into the light where it sat and pouted, refusing to cooperate as she fumbled blearily for the chattering contraption.

            Layla Parker was holed up just outside Flagstaff. She’d come here to check out a simple haunting a couple weeks after working the vampire case with the Winchesters back in Ohio. Descriptions she’d gathered had made it sound like a poltergeist just ramping up, flashing lights and throwing things, but probably headed for something violent. It was better to cut these things off before they got bad and she could use an easy case; this was her first time back in the game since the injuries she’d received on the last one. Although she still had a cast on her left forearm, she could use that hand now and the sling was gone. The rest of her cuts and bruises were well on their way to mending.

            The haunting had been a no-go, however, turning out to be a case of rich kids with too much time on their hands and nothing to do but terrorize the neighborhood. Layla had chased them off with a scare of her own, flashing of a fake state badge and the threat of trespassing and vandalism charges. Still, it had been 4 a.m. before she finally climbed into bed. As she raised her head to find the phone now, she noted the time: 5:47.

            “This had better be an emergency,” she muttered into the phone, rubbing her eyes with her free hand. If someone had this number, then they knew her well enough to expect a lackluster greeting at this time of morning.

            “Layla?” Sam Winchester’s voice sounded on the other end of the line.

            Layla blinked in surprise and rolled over into a sitting position.

            “Hey, Sam. I’ve been meaning to call. I was –“

            “Layla,” Sam interjected in a level, monotone voice. He sounded almost mechanical and Layla’s skin crawled, sensing something sinister when he hesitated before proceeding. “Layla,” he repeated uncertainly, “Dean and I…we were tracking something… investigating a disappearance. Turned out it was a Trickster, one we’ve run into before. We thought we killed him last time. Now he...he wants to make me suffer and Dean…Dean’s dead…”

            Sam was still talking but for a minute Layla couldn’t make herself focus on the words. The proclamation had struck her like a blow to the chest and she was left breathless and shaken, the world seeming to spin off-kilter around her. She forced her mind to cease its startled antics and resolve her attention on Sam’s words.

            “…it’s not really real…or it doesn’t have to be. We can bring him back, Layla. We can go back to that day. I just need your help to find the Trickster. I’ll make him bring Dean back.”

            Layla’s brain suddenly kicked into gear, wheels churning as it dredged up every bit of lore she could remember on Tricksters and then started playing out scenarios. She’d never encountered one herself but the lore was well known. Hell, Loki was even in comic books now. _But how do you trap something as capricious and powerful as a god of mischief?_

            “Who else have you told?” Layla asked brusquely.

            “No one yet.”

            “Keep it that way. At least, leave out the details and get off the grid. This thing’s gonna be watching you or watching for you to get close.”

            “That’s why I called you. I can’t track this thing alone but I couldn’t bring in someone he might know about either.”

            Layla exhaled slowly and ran a hand down her face, trying to clear her mind and impose some sort of order on the chaos of her thoughts. She tried to focus on the problem, to work out plans for tracking a Trickster and anticipating any possible missteps but every train of thought seemed to carry her mind back to the same place: Dean was dead. The flash of his teasing smile and the spark of his green eyes crossed her mind and she shoved it away with aggravation, trying to ignore the leaden weight that it left resting on her chest.

            “Good thinking,” she replied at last. “Besides, I owe you…both.” She cleared her throat as she reached over and flicked on the bedside lamp, blinking in the sudden glare. “So tell me everything.”

            Layla could hear Sam draw in a long, shaking breath as he steeled his nerves to relate the story. He explained about their first encounter with the Trickster, about how they thought they had killed it with Bobby’s help. He related how they had come to the Mystery Spot for lack of a better lead and how he had gotten caught in a time loop of Tuesdays, watching his brother die over and over, always waking again on the same morning only to watch Dean die again and start the process anew. As he ended the story, recounting the gunshot that had brought him running to the Impala and Dean’s last gasping breaths on the blacktop, Sam’s voice cracked audibly.

            Layla gritted her teeth and shoved all emotional reactions to the back of her mind; it was like seizing a fistful of razorblades but she locked them away nevertheless.

            “You’re right,” she said after a long moment of silence spent integrating the new information with the lore she knew already. “You can’t bring in anyone else. This thing said the joke’s on you. That means he’s going to be watching you. This joke’s not over.”  

            “What do you mean it’s not over?”

            “This thing doesn’t tend to leave people standing when he’s done. And he likes to linger afterwards and bask in his own cleverness. But he let you just walk away, lesson learned? No. He’ll want to be there when you really crack. He knows you’re going to come for him. He’s betting he’ll break you first.”

            “That’s not going to happen,” Sam‘s voice was uncharacteristically grim with resolve and it elicited a small smile from Layla. “I’m going to save my brother.”

            It felt like Sam had reached through the phone and squeezed that fistful of razorblades that Layla had locked away. Her smile faltered and suddenly she was struggling to confine the pain that seeped from that cell in the back of her mind. As much as it might hurt her to lose a…friend, the realization of Sam’s agony in the loss of his brother was soul crushing. All the more reason she had to make this right. Unfortunately, the Trickster hadn’t left them the option of being sentimental. Not if they wanted to fix this.

            “I know, Sam. You just can’t forget. Because it’s going to get hard and it’s going to get lonely.”

            Two thousand miles away, Sam sighed and lowered his head into his hand. He sat in silence for a moment, struggling to swallow the lump in his throat.

            “It already is.”

            “It’s going to get worse,” Layla said flatly. “This is has to be the last time we talk. I’ll text you once a week so you know I’m still looking but other than that you’re not going hear from me until I find something. You have to do the same.”

            Sam grunted his agreement. He had thought many of the same things but he’d already witnessed Layla’s habit of thinking aloud. He found it oddly comforting now, the way she outlined and organized the maelstrom of his thoughts, so he let her proceed without comment.

            “I’ll have to go dark too,” Layla was saying, “I can’t tell any of my contacts what I’m looking for because if the Trickster somehow hears that I’m hunting him, I’ll be useless and you really will be on your own.”

            Sam sighed heavily. He didn’t want to face the thought of what the future held, of hunting completely alone, not just without Dean; but this was the other reason he had called Layla: she lived under the radar. If anyone was going to be able to do some surreptitious digging, it would be her.

            “You’re right,” he said. “So what’s our first step? What do I do while you’re tracking it?”

            “Do whatever you would do. Hunt. Watch for clues about this thing. But in the end, he’ll probably come to you so you just have to be ready. We’re playing for the long game here and the first step in a long con is letting the mark think they won the first round.”

            “So I act defeated, make a big show of looking for revenge and keep his eyes on me.”

            “Bingo. Be what he thinks you would be, what he expects to see. If he wants to see you broken, you have to pretend you are. Just don’t get lost in it. He’ll slip up eventually.”

            “You realize our ‘mark’ here is a literal Trickster, right?”

            “That’s right, Sam. You’re going to trick the Trickster…again.”

            _* * * * *_

            Over the next the few months, Sam walked the dangerously fine line between playing his role and becoming it. Dean’s absence was a yawning void in his life but at the very deepest core of his being, he refused to accept it, to let himself feel it. If Sam gave up on that thought, that Dean wasn’t really gone and all this could be fixed, he truly would be broken.

            Sam had made one more phone call after going over the plan with Layla. He had called Bobby and told him Dean was gone. He hated himself for it but he had barely spoken with the man, simply laying out the facts of Dean’s death before backing out of the conversation and hanging up. He didn’t have to tell Bobby he was hunting the thing; he knew the older man would know. He’d probably be hunting it too and part of Sam wanted desperately to turn to him for information and guidance, for some sense of stability. There was just no way to know if the next person that claimed to be Bobby really was. Technically, there was no way to know if the person he’d just hung up with was really Bobby either but he felt he owed it to the man to try and let him know what had happened to Dean in case his own plan failed.

            There was the great irony of the situation, the Trickster wanted him to resign himself to life without his brother and now Sam resigned himself to a life without anyone in order to bring his brother back. The younger Winchester became almost robotic, cleaning and organizing his weapons compulsively. The only books he read now were research and what down time he had was consumed by relentless searches through every available news report for bizarre, unexplained or suspicious deaths. He made a trip John’s storage unit and brought out the heavy artillery. If they’d been loaded for bear before, Sam could have gone hunting a T-Rex now.

            In his methodical way, Sam made as much noise in the hunting circles as he could, targeting any supernatural threat he could find and making sure stories of his exploits and his mission to find the Trickster made the rounds. Two months in, he exorcised the demon in Death Valley; he took a bullet to the ribs before managing to trap and exorcise that black-eyed bastard. Six weeks later he cleared a small but nasty vampire nest in Austin. Along the way, he took down every minor monster and vengeful spirit he could find.

            In his brief and sporadic downtime, Sam let himself play into some of the stranger compulsions that arose to cope with his solitude. At each dinner where his nonstop schedule allowed him to sit and eat, he ordered a second meal with all the trimmings for Dean. Sam let it sit untouched as he mechanically forced down a bland, healthy dinner. It didn’t matter what Sam ate. Everything turned to ash in his mouth now anyway. He just had to keep himself fueled for the unceasing regimen of hunting, tracking, and research.

            Bobby started calling around this same time…or maybe it was something claiming to be Bobby and using his voice. Sam didn’t know what to believe; only that he couldn’t trust anything anymore. He never answered the calls but always listened to the messages immediately. The maybe-Bobby told him he was worried, said he had heard some of the stories and wanted him to check in but Sam couldn’t risk that it wasn’t Bobby. When he faced the Trickster, he had to know it going in.           

            Layla texted once a week, as promised, but mostly it was to ensure him that she was still looking. He found the messages to offer some small measure of reassurance, a reminder that he was not alone in the world or on his mission, but Sam rarely hoped for a breakthrough anymore. He occasionally wondered whether the texts were coming from the Trickster but he doubted that that fickle fucker would have the consistency to maintain the schedule for months.

            It was almost six months later when the messages stopped. At least, Sam had been expecting the next one for the last three days. That was when maybe-Bobby called one more time, saying he knew how to trap the Trickster. Sam couldn’t help thinking that the sudden development might not be a coincidence. A knot of anger and fear twisted in his gut when he considered what that might mean about Layla’s sudden silence.

* * * * * 3 Days Earlier * * * * *

            For Layla, the last six months had been more quiet than usual. She hadn’t known Dean long when he’d died but in a lot of ways Layla felt she knew him well, that he mirrored a part of herself. And yet he hadn’t been a part of her life, not in the everyday sense. To Layla, Dean’s absence was only a vague awareness that lingered in the very back of her mind, waiting to pounce onto her unsuspecting chest at three in the morning when she’d dozed off next to her laptop. Still she couldn’t help thinking each morning that the world seemed somehow bleaker for the knowledge.

            Layla made every effort to lay low even by her own secretive standards. She spent days doing nothing but research, tucked away at some random motel or some backroom at a university library. She poured over reports of strange disappearances and revisited the news reports surrounding the events Sam had attributed to this Trickster, trying to recognize a pattern.

            When she did follow up on a lead, it seemed that usually meant a day talking to someone with extreme mental illness, listening to their hallucinations and trying to decode any clue that their ramblings might be indicative of something more. After all, this Trickster didn’t kill all its victims; sometimes it just left them damaged. She heard stories of everything from UFOs and alien abductions to unicorns and fairies to Bigfoot but none appeared to hold up under scrutiny. None of them matched this Trickster’s M.O.

            Most of the real disappearances she followed up on tended to be mundane, unfaithful spouses or angry teens running away. Only one turned out to be supernatural: a Woman in White taking victims on a lonely stretch of road in Nebraska. She’d managed to wrap that up with a midnight trip to the graveyard and an impromptu bonfire, extra salty.

            Even Layla’s contact with Kinsey, her research buddy, occasional hunting partner and the closest thing she had to family, was minimal. She couldn’t risk that the woman would figure out what she was hunting. She was already suspicious that Layla had been begging off cases, always on the pretext of following some new lead or clue that never seemed to pan out and would never be explained. It wasn’t that Layla didn’t trust Kinsey; it was that the woman would be unable to resist the urge to help. Kinsey could be subtle but she worked via a network of people like Layla, not all of whom Layla knew. Too many people asking similar questions were bound to draw the wrong kind of attention.

            And so the time crawled by interminably as she scraped and dug and questioned and hid. She held little hope of discovering anything more than a madman as she drove through the small, thriving city in the Arkansas foothills; after all Mike Houder was already being treated in a psychiatric unit. That didn’t mean that what he claimed to have experienced didn’t really happen. Granted, he was claiming he had been mercilessly ravished for days by a group of attractive co-eds who had kidnapped him for their sex games and left him outside of town naked, unconscious and severely dehydrated. Reports said that when he woke and saw an attractive nurse over his bed, he had screamed until they’d been forced to sedate him.

            She’d found the story in some backwater of the internet, a below the radar, News-of-the-Weird type site that claimed to track unusual events. There was something about the story, which on the surface seemed absolutely ridiculous and more suited to the pages of a Penthouse Forum, that nevertheless seemed to ring of a now familiar, juvenile sense of humor. It had taken a few days of phone calls and meetings with family members to arrange an interview with Mr. Houder and as she drove towards the hospital now, Layla prayed that she hadn’t been wasting her time.

* * * * *

            Layla followed the signs on the walls through the glistening gray and white corridors of the hospital. She finally arrived at a heavy steel door, solid except for a single pane of security glass. There was an intercom next to the door and she prodded the button impatiently.

            She explained to the voice that answered about her appointment with Mike Houder. After a long interval, there was a loud buzzing noise and the heavy ‘thunk’ of the door mechanism unlocking. Layla entered with a feeling of trepidation. She hated being locked in anywhere and the instant the door slammed shut behind her, she was already anxious to be on the other side of it.

            She crossed a small waiting area to the large circular desk where overworked nurses bustled to and fro, carrying trays and files. One nurse was apparently on break and she stood at the far side of the office area; one knee was propped on an office chair and her hands gripped the stethoscope around her neck as she arched her back enticingly at a male orderly who leaned on the desk across from her. The blonde man made a comment, his eyebrows rising comically and Layla could hear the young woman giggle in response as she neared the desk. A plump, middle-aged receptionist in teal scrubs sat glued to her keyboard and only glanced up briefly at Layla’s approach.

            “You’re Kelly Morris, right? Here to see Mike Houder?” the woman said tersely.

            Layla nodded and opened her mouth to respond but was cut off as the woman shouted over her shoulder.

            “Danny!”

            The man who’d been flirting with the nurse on the other side of the circle of desks jogged around and leaned an arm next to her computer.

            “Ladies,” he said by way of greeting, raising his eyebrows first at Layla then at the receptionist. Layla had trouble pinpointing the man’s age, his charming smile and youthful demeanor making him seem younger than he probably was. He was of average height and build, generically nondescript but with a spark of charisma. His brown eyes flashed as he winked at Layla conspiratorially before addressing the receptionist, leaning forward over the desk.

            “Julie, my love. Which of your desires can I fulfill?” he shot her an exaggeratedly debonair grin.

            “Can it, Danny,” Julie said impatiently but Layla noticed the blush that crept over the woman’s cheeks. When she lowered her head to dig in a desk drawer by her knee, Layla was certain it was to hide her flattered smile from the orderly. Julie withdrew a disposable facemask and tossed it at Danny. “Take Ms. Morris here back to Houder’s room. You know the drill.”

            “You’re a cruel temptress, Julie,” Danny said as he straightened and grabbed the mask that slapped against the breast of his white uniform. He turned towards one of the three hallways that branched out from the main reception area and waved a hand over his shoulder for Layla to follow. He twirled the mask absently around his finger as he strolled down the hall, waiting for her to draw up beside him.

            “Gonna talk to Mike, huh? Good luck with that.” He smirked knowingly, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

            “What do you mean?” Layla frowned slightly. “He told his wife it would be fine.”

            “I’m sure it will,” he replied as he nimbly dodged an oncoming nurse. He turned a corner and continued when Layla was beside him again. “It’s kind of ironic, this thing with Mike. He had a reputation as a bit of a player, if you know what I mean.” The orderly’s tone left little question of what he meant and Layla frowned slightly in distaste.

            “You make it hard not to. And “player” isn’t exactly groundbreaking slang with the kids anymore.”

            Danny shrugged and stopped outside a closed door, extending the blue paper mask to Layla.

            “You’ll want to wear this.”

            Layla accepted the mask hesitantly. “Why? Is he contagious or something?”

            “No. It’s just better than the screaming.”

            “So why don’t you have to wear one?” she asked as she arranged the mask over her face.

            “I guess I’m just not his type,” Danny replied with a chuckle. He tugged his security card from its spot on his shirt and swiped it at a panel next to the door. He pushed the door open and held it with his toe as he let the card snap back into place on its elastic lanyard.

            “So you lock up all your patients like this?” Layla asked, trying to ignore the way her pulse was beginning to race at the thought of being behind yet another locked door.

            “No. He insists on it. I’ll wait out here. He shouldn’t be any trouble but just tap when you want out. And remember, he’s more scared of you than you are of him.” The orderly entered the room, ushering Layla through behind him.

            “Hey, stud. Ms….uh… Morris is here to listen at ya.” Danny said with a barely suppressed laugh. Layla shot the orderly an irritated glance and stepped past, extending a hand to the man in the bed.   Mike Houder recoiled from her hand as if she had offered him a snake and Layla quickly withdrew it, throwing another annoyed look over her shoulder at Danny; but the orderly only grinned enigmatically and stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him.

            Layla cleared her throat self-consciously and gestured to a chair near the end of the bed.

            “May I?”

            Mike Houder nodded slowly. His eyes were wide as he watched her circle to the chair and take a seat. Under normal circumstances he was probably a pleasant looking man, on the handsome side of average, creeping up on 40 but toned for his age.

            “I spoke with your wife, Anne. She said you’d be expecting me. I hope I haven’t come at a bad time.”

            Mike blinked a few times as if he had trouble concentrating on her words, then shook his head as if banishing whatever thought was distracting him. He fixed his eyes on his hands, which fidgeted nervously in his lap, as he spoke.

            “Yeah. I mean, no….I…I mean I knew you were coming.”

            Layla nodded slightly. She felt like having her face covered removed half her arsenal. The right expression of pity or concern or anger at the right moment could be more critical than the most brilliant string of questions.

            “Do you need anything before we begin?” she asked, trying to make the man feel at ease. The calmer Mike was the more details he would remember and any tiny clue could help her. That was the infuriating thing about tracking the Trickster, most of the time she wasn’t even sure what to look for or ask about. People didn’t tend to admit when they’d been slapped with a harsh dose of cosmic justice.

            “First….you have to tell me…what you’ll do with it.” Mike’s words rushed out in short bursts as if he had to gather his courage before attempting a phrase of any length.

            “I’m working on a book, Mr. Houder. Unexplained phenomena, disappearances, abductions…”

            “I won’t be a joke,” he stated, his voice suddenly and surprisingly stern.

            “Of course not. I’m not writing a joke book. I know there are strange things out there in the world, mysterious things in the dark. I intend to bring them into the light.” Layla’s tone was passionate and sincere as she flipped open the notebook she had brought and rested it on her knees.

            Mr. Houder seemed assuaged by her speech and he gave a small nod, settling back against his cushions gingerly.

            “No names?”

            “No names,” Layla confirmed. “Just first names for my notes.” The man nodded again, gesturing for her to proceed.

            Layla retrieved a tape recorder from the pocket of her suit jacket and held it up questioningly. When Mr. Houder nodded she flipped the switch and spoke into it briefly:

            “Interview one…” Layla set the recorder on the swivel tray beside his bed. “So tell me your story. What happened to you out there?”

            The man wrung the edge of his sheet in his hands and Layla could see his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously but she waited patiently for him to speak. Pushing was always counter-productive in these situations.

            “I was at the bar…after work, ya know, with some of the boys from the bank. It was just….a normal night but when we all went to leave…there was this woman outside and she was…”

            Mike trailed off and grimaced, rubbing his hand across his face as if trying to wipe away a thought or image. After a few deep breaths, Mike calmed and forced himself to continue, his voice monotone and robotic.

            “She was…. attractive. She stopped me by my car. Said she had friends …that wanted to meet me. She took me back in the bar…and suddenly there were …w-…w-…women everywhere,” Mike’s words began to tumble out faster, his voice raising in pitch. “And they all wan- wanted me …and we were drinking…and then there was this bus….and I don’t know! I couldn’t stop. Three days straight and I couldn’t stop. It was horrible but I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to want to…but I couldn’t…” he trailed off and lowered his voice to a whisper, raising his eyes for the first time to look at Layla. “Not even when I … broke _it_.”

            For a moment, Layla wished the mask covered more of her face as she struggled to keep her eyes from widening in horror and disgust. And maybe, just slightly, an intense desire to laugh.

            “…’it’?” she inquired hesitantly.

            “It,” Mike confirmed; his pained expression and tone left no questions as to the referent. “I had to have surgery and everything.”

            Layla nodded and jotted down some notes studiously, if only to buy herself some time to mull over the situation and quell her instinct towards inappropriate humor.

            “What about your friends who were with you at the bar? Did any of them see this mystery woman or her….sex bus?” she had a hard time delivering that last line seriously.

            When Mike only shook his head, Layla pointed to the tape recorder and he cleared his throat. “No. No one saw her…them. They ….they weren’t inside…before.”

            Layla arched one dark eyebrow questioningly.

            “How do you know?”

            He gave her an exasperated look, twisting his sheet in his hands again. “I…we…would have known,” he replied cryptically.

            “How can you be sure?” Layla probed. When Mike only bit his lip and looked away, she tried a different approach, “Mike, the more details I can provide, the more I can fill in the story, the more believable it will be.”

            “I don’t have proof or anything. It’s just that these…women, they obviously weren’t… from around here. They were the type …to definitely get noticed.” Mike shot her an beseeching gaze from the corner of his eye; he was obviously not going to be able to go into details.

            “Is there any way you were drugged? Did they run a drug panel when you were admitted?” Layla asked, derailing the conversation away from specifics about the women.

            “They didn’t find any-…anything I don’t remember taking. Nothing that would do that,” he replied circumspectly. Layla didn’t really care about what he’d taken; she wasn’t on the hunt for one skeevy guy’s recreational drug habits. She continued to let her hand drag the pen absently across the paper. With the tape recorder, there was no need to write down Mike’s words but as they spoke, Layla jotted down impressions, expressions, flinches and twitches and changes in his cadence, noting the triggers and twinges.

            “Do you have any enemies, Mike?” she asked flatly as she shifted her gaze sharply from her notepad to the nervous man’s eyes.

            “What? Enemies?....I….I don’t even know why you…what’s that have to do with this?”

            “I’ll take that as a yes. What about lovers? Any reason why those women or anyone else might be holding a grudge against you?”

            “What?” he repeated, “No. Look, I’ve been married…over ten years. This wasn’t some psycho ex-girlfriend.”

            “I never thought it was. Am I also right to assume that you have been less than forthcoming with your wife about your other…extramarital entanglements?”

            The man gasped like a fish out of water, mouth working silently in surprise, as Layla confronted him on his infidelity. A sheen of sweat appeared on his features as he clenched his eyes shut, shaking his head vehemently.

            Danny, the orderly, hadn’t been the first Layla had heard of it. She’d done her share of research on Mike Houder upon arriving in town and the stories she’d dug up around him went a lot further than a string of adulterous affairs.

            “I’ll take that as a yes, as well.” Layla said, flipping her notebook closed. Continuing this interview would be useless. Every time Mike got close to revealing any details, the trauma of what he’d been through derailed him. It didn’t matter anyway. The look of terror in the man’s eyes, the absurdity of his story, and his otherwise coherent demeanor had Layla convinced that Mike Houder might not be another delusional schizophrenic. That didn’t mean that he wasn’t a scumbag who had gotten we he deserved either. Layla retrieved her recorder from the table but paused before turning it off. She folded her arms and pointed it towards him distractedly.

            “I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop here. We have a problem.”

            “What problem?”

            “Too many questions you can’t answer. Like why you, a married man, would leave with a strange woman. Like why your wife thought you were still at work the night you disappeared… Or why she didn’t know about your secretary’s leave of absence,” Layla paused and appreciated the look of renewed surprise that accompanied that statement.   She leaned forward in her chair and basked in the look of guilt and fear that was spreading across his features.

            “It was nice of you to give Beth the week off after she got that abortion to cover for you. But really, Mike, you could have at least paid for it. And telling her you’d get her fired if she didn’t…that’s a whole new level of low.”

            The man began to stammer out a protest but Layla flipped off the recorder and pocketed it pointedly as she rose to her feet. She spoke over him as she tucked her notebook under her arm. “And that’s why I’m going to leave and you’re going to stay here. And no one’s going to believe your story. You might be a victim, Mike. But personally, I don’t think you deserve the sympathy.”

            She turned sharply on the heel of her words, crossed the room and tapped on the door. Before it opened, she pulled off her mask and looked over her shoulder. A rictus of terror froze Mike’s features and Layla smirked, pouting her lips in a playful kiss and winking just as the door cracked open. She replaced the mask and turned innocently towards door, stepping through it just as a scream echoed down the hallway.

            Layla made a show of removing her mask again as Danny looked in concern from her to the room. He didn’t rush in immediately, however, and when the screams faded away after a few seconds, he shrugged and turned his attention back to Layla.

            “Sounds like that went about like I expected,” he commented as he started walking back the way they had come.

            Layla balled up the mask and tossed it into a waste basket along the wall as she followed the man back towards the lobby.

            “It could have been worse,” Layla replied.

            “For you or him?” Danny chuckled.

            “Have you had any other people admitted with weird stories like that?” she inquired, sidestepping the question.

            Danny shrugged and gave her an innocent smile. “Sorry. Orderly-patient confidentiality.”

            Layla noted to herself that that was definitely not a “no.”

            “What kind of book did you say you were writing?” Danny continued.

            “I didn’t.”

            “I know. Julie from the front desk told me. You’re not a patient. You don’t get confidentiality. So what’s it about?”

            “Unexplained phenomena, mysterious disappearances, that kind of thing,” Layla said absently.

            “Huh. So what did you think about Mike’s story?”

            “I think he’s crazy,” she replied without hesitation. They were crossing the lobby now, drawing close to the metal door that barred the main entrance.

            The man chuckled and stretched out his badge, swiping it through the panel by the door.

            “Well, I’m sure you can dig up something good around here. I’ll look forward to reading about it,” Danny said as he held the door open for her. Layla slipped past and began digging through her pockets for her car keys then paused and looked back at him briefly.

            “Thanks, Danny. I’ll see you around,” she said.

            “Not if I see you first,” he laughed and gave a wink, letting the door close behind her.    

* * * * *

            Layla visited her motel room long enough to change into more casual clothing and gear up with her usual array of concealed weapons; she always felt exposed without their familiar weight. She dumped her laptop into a messenger bag, threw the strap over one shoulder and headed up the street towards a nearby diner. It had the dual attractions of offering wifi and having the kind of low-key, hometown atmosphere that always promised gossip.

            The diner was only a few blocks from her motel and as she walked, Layla reviewed what she knew about Mike Houder’s encounter. This guy wasn’t just a player, he was practically a predator, using his money and position to pressure women into sex and worse; now suddenly he was almost sexed to death? As far as Layla was concerned, the Trickster may as well have left his calling card. Although she hated to admit it, she could almost appreciate his style, at least with this case. But she knew there would be more victims and they would not always be so satisfying…but then again, who was she to decide? That was the whole point, wasn’t it? It wasn’t her place, or the Tricksters, to decide people’s fates. It certainly hadn’t been his place to kill Dean or torture Sam with it.

            Layla sighed and adjusted the bag slung over her shoulder. An oncoming pedestrian, her head down as her thumbs danced across the keyboard of her phone, was walking straight towards her. The woman didn’t glance up and would have slammed right into Layla if the hunter hadn’t snapped out of her thoughts at the last moment and quickly sidestepped. The brick front of the building they were passing didn’t allow Layla enough room to clear the woman’s path completely and when the woman made no similar effort to detour, their shoulders collided roughly. The impact knocked the messenger bag from Layla’s shoulder and it landed with an unpleasant plastic clattering sound. The woman hardly glanced in Layla’s direction before continuing unperturbed.

            “What the fuck, lady?” Layla snapped at the woman’s back as she snatched up her messenger bag. The woman made no indication that she had heard or that she cared about Layla’s question, if she had. Layla scowled at her retreating figure for a moment then quickly threw back the flap of her bag to check the condition of her laptop. When she decided the computer was still in one piece, she closed the bag and returned it to her shoulder; this time, however, she settled the strap diagonally across her chest. Layla started to let her mind wander back to the task at hand but kept a slightly more wary eye on her surroundings.

            Now, the trick was to figure out where the Trickster was going to hit next, to find a pattern or a likely target. Hopefully with a little research she’d find something else in the area, maybe something that had appeared innocuous at the time; then she just had to find the common thread, the person who always seemed to be around before or after; the person that fits but doesn’t…or maybe fits too well. That was how Sam and Dean (well, technically, Bobby) had found it the first time at the university, and how …

            Layla’s train of thought careered of its tracks as she threw herself out of the street and the path of a car which suddenly accelerated into the intersection and veered around the corner. She landed roughly on her hands and knees, a sharp indrawn breath hissing through her clenched teeth as her palms erupted in fire. She pushed herself quickly to her feet and looked around, dabbing her palms on her jeans.

            The car was gone and the few other people she could see on the street hadn’t seemed to notice. She glanced to the crossing signal on the corner just in time to see the flashing red outline of a hand appear. So she hadn’t zoned out and walked into traffic, she reassured herself. That car hadn’t been aiming for her either; they wouldn’t have missed at that distance if they’d been trying. She’d barely made it out of the street as it was.

            The tiny hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle. Something was wrong. She turned slowly, senses straining for any hint of something out of place, anything that didn’t belong, someone not acting the way they should; but everything seemed completely normal. People were walking the streets individually or in small groups; traffic flowed by in a steady rhythm. It occurred to Layla that she must look strange standing on the street corner, peering suspiciously around in every direction and she grudgingly turned once more towards the diner.

            Luckily, the restaurant was only a half block away now and she managed to make it inside without further incident. A sign near the entrance invited her to seat herself and she settled at a corner table near the door to the kitchen. Sitting there, she had a clear view of the rest of the dining area and she’d have good access to kitchen gossip. There weren’t many other patrons at the moment which further increased the likelihood of getting one of the servers to sit and dish out the local rumors.

            As she waited for the waitress, Layla set her laptop on the table and started it up. The wi-fi connection wasn’t secured so she quickly logged online and started skimming local news sources. Nothing of immediate interest caught her eye and she lost track of time as she skimmed and clicked through the stories. A loud growl of protest from her stomach a short while later reminded her of what had really brought her to the diner and she glanced up with a thoughtful frown. One of the three wait staff she had noticed, a pretty middle-aged woman with auburn hair, was walking towards her table. The woman continued past and through the door to the kitchen. When she re-emerged a minute later, Layla raised a hand as she passed.

            “Miss?”

            Something about the way the waitress continued past blankly and sent a chill down Layla’s spine. The kitchen door swung open again and a teenage busboy came through, carrying an empty tub.

            “Hey, kid!” Layla called at the young man but he also took no notice. He continued past and Layla rose to her feet. “Hey!” she repeated more loudly at his back as he quickly cleared the dishes from a recently vacated table. Not only didn’t the boy seem to hear, but no one in the diner reacted to her sudden outburst either.

            As the busboy began to pass Layla again on his way back to the kitchen, she shot out a hand and grabbed his arm. The young man jumped as if he had been grabbed by a ghost, his eyes wide and startled as they turned to fix on her.

            “Shi-…I mean, you almost scared me to death,” he stammered nervously. Layla’s racing heart slowed a bit as he acknowledged her.

            “You…you can hear me? See me?”

            The young man, whose name tag read Steven, nodded slowly, his expression making it apparent that he would prefer not to see a crazy stranger gripping his arm.

            “Sorry…” Layla began uncertainly. How the hell did she explain this one? “I just…uh…I’ve been sitting here for ages and no one’s taken my order.”

            _Great, I look like one of_ **those** _people. I’ll be lucky if there’s only food in my food now._

            “Sorry about that, ma’am. I’ll let your server know,” Steven said as he tugged his arm away gingerly. Layla released his arm with an uncomfortable, apologetic smile and sank back into her chair. Steven shook his head slightly and disappeared back into the kitchen.

            What the hell had just happened? She rechecked the time on her watch; she’d definitely been sitting there unnoticed for close to 20 minutes. Not impossible, but unlikely in a fairly quiet diner. And then she’d practically shouted at Steven and the boy hadn’t seemed to notice. He hadn’t noticed her in fact, until she’d touched him…until he’d had to. Layla’s pulse began to quicken again and she scanned the restaurant’s other patrons, looking for some glance back, the awkward eye contact, the curious gaze, the small smile, any hint that someone noticed her watching them. Nothing.

            Another server went through the kitchen door without looking her direction. When she reentered, Layla leapt to her feet, her chair grinding out a screeching sound against the linoleum as it slid behind her.

            “Hey! Lady!” Layla gave in to her frustration and shouted at the woman, who still didn’t seem to hear.

            The murmuring tides of conversation continued around her, undisturbed by the noise or the sudden movement. Layla’s pulse began to pound in her ears and she strode to the middle of the diner, directly in the center of the scattered clusters of couples and families. She grabbed a handful of napkins from a table and tossed them into the air.

            “Look at me!” Layla shouted at the nearest occupied table as a blizzard of paper napkins fluttered to the floor around her.

            _God. I’m going to end up locked up next to Mike Houder…._

But there was still no reaction among the diner’s patrons or staff.   The young couple at the table continued as before, sharing a plate of fries and a lot of awkward flirting.

            “Fucking look at me!” She snapped and stepped forward, slamming her palm on the edge of their table. The impact caused the table to shake and the two teens paused briefly in their conversation, sharing a confused look. They both shook their heads a moment later, laughed and resumed their conversation as if nothing had happened.

            Layla stepped back in shock. This couldn’t be real. It didn’t make any sense. The busboy, Steven, was walking through a nearby aisle and Layla quickly skirted the table and rushed after him.

            “Steven!”

            She grabbed the young man’s shoulder and he started, gray plastic tub full of dishes clattering to the ground. The voices in the diner died away as the conversation faltered and everyone turned curiously towards the sound.

            “Fuck!” The teen didn’t even try to stop himself from cursing as he looked over his shoulder, adjusting his black-rimmed glasses. “Where the hell did you come from?”

            “Shut up!” Layla snapped, locking her hand around his slender forearm. When he looked up at her in wounded surprise, she locked her eyes on his and he seemed to sense that something was wrong. A mix of worry and consternation spread across his youthful features. “Steven…do you remember me?” Layla asked in a rush.

            Steven chuckled uncomfortably and glanced around but the rest of the diners had returned to their meals and resumed ignoring Layla.

            “Is this some kind of joke?”

            “Answer the fucking question, Steven! Have you ever seen me before? Ever?”

            The young man shook his head slowly. “Never seen you in my life.”

            Layla searched his eyes for some glimmer of deceit, praying this was all just some big prank or misunderstanding. She saw only sincerity and a tiny, growing spark of fear at the madwoman latched onto his arm. Layla realized she was probably gripping his arm to the point of pain and she snatched her hand away, mumbling an apology.

            As soon as she began to back away, Steven gave the same distinctive shake of his head. A befuddled expression settled on his face as he surveyed the mess of dishes and spilled food at his feet. Layla could hear him muttering under his breath as he knelt and began clearing the mess. She rushed back to her table and gathered her things then quickly fled the diner.

            As she hurried through the door she careened off the chest of a tall, barrel-chested man who glared at her briefly from beneath a mass of black and gray facial fair.

            “What the hell are -…” the man began. His words halted as Layla bounced off his solid frame and was promptly forgotten. He shook his head and resumed his route down the sidewalk.

            Layla started back towards her motel at a hurried pace. She dug out her cell phone and dialed Kinsey’s number with shaking hands.

            Thankfully, the second ring wasn’t even completed when it was cut off and replaced by the sound of Kinsey’s voice.

            “Hello?”

            A grateful tide of relief flooded through Layla’s body at the sound of her friend’s voice.

            “Kinsey! Something’s wrong…”

            “Hello?” Kinsey repeated, her tone impatient. Layla’s heart sank into her stomach.

            “Kinsey. Can you hear me?” Layla’s voice was pleading, almost hysterical.

            “I don’t know who this is…”

            “It’s Layla! Fucking hell, Kinsey! It’s Layla!” She didn’t bother trying to muffle her voice as she shouted into the phone.

            “…but there’s something wrong with your phone. Try back from another line,” Kinsey had continued to speak through the outburst and Layla was barely able to piece together the bits she heard. The connection cut off a moment later and Layla stopped in her tracks, lowering the phone to stare mutely at the silent contraption as the screen blinked off.

            So she was completely invisible…no, not just invisible, completely undetectable until she forced someone to see her, to acknowledge her. It was like something was telling everyone to ignore her…but when she touched them, or changed something they couldn’t ignore, their minds couldn’t reconcile the information; it was like they were forced to accept her presence in order to maintain a cohesive reality. The moment that pressure was removed, they forgot it had ever existed, that Layla existed.

            There was only one thing she knew of that could alter perceptions and change reality at a whim like that. In that instant, Layla was absolutely convinced of two things: Mike Houder’s story was true and the Trickster knew she was tracking him.

* * * * *


	2. - That Way, Madness – We’re All Crazy Here – A Decent Guy – Hope and a Sign -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Layla retraces her steps in an effort to figure out why she's been erased from life. Of course, a familiar figure emerges to rub her failure in her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should point out (maybe I should have last time) that none of this really makes any sense if you haven't read the first work in the series: Devil in the Details.
> 
> [As before, italicized section is episode excerpt and not my dialogue.]

_* * * * *_

_Sam stops at the doorway and turns a questioning look on Bobby when the other hunter makes no move to follow him from the room._

_“You break my heart, kid,” Bobby says quietly with a slow shake of his head._

_“What?” Sam asks._

_“I’m not gonna let you murder an innocent man.”_

_“Then why’d you bring me here?” Sam’s tone is impatient but he maintains an air of emotionless detachment._

_“Why?!” Bobby responds sharply. “’Cause it was the only way you’d see me! ‘Cause I’m trying to knock some sense into ya.” He steps forward pointedly as he drops the last sentence in place: “’Cause I thought you’d back down from killing a man.”_

_Sam hesitates only a fraction of a second before responding flatly: “Well, you thought wrong.”_

_Bobby can only stare mutely at the younger Winchester, expression hovering between grief and disgust._

_“Leave the stuff. I’ll do it myself,” Sam continues firmly, meeting Bobby’s accusing gaze unflinchingly._

_Bobby shakes his head again. “I told you. I’m not gonna let you kill a ma-…“_

_“It’s none of your damn business what I do!” Sam explodes in a roar, eliciting a look of shock from the older hunter. Jaw clenched in rage, breath coming in loud, ragged gasps, Sam glares at Bobby._

_“You want it so bad?” Bobby asks as he breaks off the staring match. Turning to the bag of supplies behind him, he retrieves a kris, the dagger’s rippled blade made of a dull, blackened metal. “Fine,” he says as he turns to Sam, holding the knife in front of him lightly as if testing the weight of it…_

* * * * * 2 Days Earlier * * * * *

            Layla had spent a long time just sitting in her motel room the night before. She’d tried texting Kinsey as soon as she returned to the room. No response had arrived. When her stomach had demanded attention over her frustration, she’d forced down one of the protein bars she always kept on hand as emergency rations. She didn’t have an appetite anymore but if the Trickster had locked in on her, she was going to have to be on top of her game. After she had silenced her stomach’s complaints, she lay back on the bed, hands folded under her head. She’d stared at the ceiling for hours, occasionally sipping from a pint of whiskey as she mulled over how to proceed; at last sleep had arrived unbidden.

            She woke the next morning none the wiser and no better equipped with a plan. In her mind’s eye she replayed the events of the day before, her interview with Mike at the hospital, the drive back to the motel, the walk to the diner, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when she had ceased to exist; at least, as far as everyone else was concerned. She wasn’t exactly sure when it had started. She didn’t remember anything strange at the hospital but she hadn’t tried to interact with anyone after leaving the psychiatric wing. The drive to the motel had been equally uneventful but intuition told her that her car was probably what people had noticed, not her.

            When the strange occurrences became diluted and blurred by the passage of time, Layla started to doubt her perception and her memories. She briefly visited the motel lobby and screamed at the woman behind the desk, if only to vent her frustration and reaffirm that she was still undetectable. The elderly woman only continued to watch her stories on the TV with an absent smile, completely unaware of the tirade going on a foot from her head. On the bright side, there was a continental breakfast being offered.

            Layla returned to her room in defeat but with free coffee and a comfort donut.

            She didn’t have a clue what to do next. She couldn’t do anything, other than scour news sources she’d already looked through a hundred times. She couldn’t even walk into a store and buy something without physically latching onto the clerk…which would probably just result in her being thrown out of the store. Granted, the clerk would apparently forget about her a moment later but Layla could do without the hijinks which she could envision ensuing. The same thing applied to every option she could devise; every scenario required interacting with people and there weren’t many situations where people were fond of strangers suddenly appearing and grabbing hold of them. If she did manage to keep hold of someone long enough to explain, they would only think she was insane. She couldn’t even prove that they would forget. If she let go of them, they’d only forget that they’d forgotten.

            The word ‘insane’ bounced around in her head for a while and she let it wander about, trying to discover why it was restless and where it belonged. Maybe it was just a new label for herself. She quickly dismissed that thought; that way madness lie, literally, and a victory for the Trickster. She’d thought she’d hated that fucker before.

            Eventually, the word she was observing settled over an image of Mike Houder and refused to budge, no matter how much she tried to dispel it with reassurances of the Trickster’s intervention. Then it clicked: the thing that the orderly, Danny, had said…or not said. When she’d asked if there were others in the ward with similar stories, he hadn’t denied it. That probably meant there were others…or one other. So there was at least one other person who might be willing to listen to her story, who might be able to help or provide information…and she’d find him or her back at the hospital.

            As she brushed away the crumbs of the donut and began gathering her things, a thought occurred to her. The Trickster liked to enjoy his little games after the fact, which meant he could pop up any time. She had to be ready when he came, just like she had told Sam, but that was going to be a bit more of a problem for her. She was missing a key ingredient.

            On her way to her car, Layla stopped by the trunk and dug out one of the stakes that she had whittled in the first couple weeks after accepting the task of looking for the Trickster. She’d never really intended on using them. Her job had been to find information, not go after this thing alone, but she’d found carving them satisfying; some part of her had probably been hoping for a chance to use one.

            She ran a hand over the smooth, white wood and sighed before tucking it into the interior pocket of her jacket. That blank color was the problem. For a stake to kill a Trickster, it had to be dipped in the blood of one of its victims. She’d yet to find anyone other than Mike Houder who she was certain was a victim. It was a good thing she was already headed back to the hospital.

            She knew it was probably hopeless but she sent a text message to Sam before starting the car. Maybe he was somehow outside the range of this curse or whatever it was; either way, she felt she owed it to him to at least try to give him a heads up.  

* * * * *

            Sam was wrapping up a job in a suburb just outside of Richmond, Va. It had been a fairly routine werewolf hunt, although that was one monster Sam always hated to deal with. They were too human too much of the time and that thought always brought painful memories. There’d been no choice for this guy, however. He’d already ripped apart his girlfriend’s brother and practically every male who’d glanced her way in the last few months.

            George hadn’t been a bad guy or even possessive, according to his girlfriend. If anything, he’d been insecure but that was when the wolf wasn’t behind the wheel. Sam had seen firsthand the carnage this guy was leaving behind. Without a cure or any way to ensure he wouldn’t kill again, Sam had to put the creature down. It had been a clean kill, quick and easy, with a silver bullet to the head as soon as George had turned, but the hunt had taken too long.

            It wasn’t that Sam had another lead to chase or any particular destination in mind; it was just that he had grown accustomed to the rhythm of the road. In a lot of ways, he felt closer to Dean when he was behind the wheel of the Impala. Whenever Sam was stuck in one place too long, it became increasingly difficult to convince himself that Dean’s absence from his life was only temporary. Sam had been spinning his wheels here for over a week, waiting for the lunar cycle to reach its peak so he could confirm that he was targeting the right man.

            Sam frowned. That was what George had been, all the time that Sam had watched him, he’d been just an average guy. Yet Sam hadn’t blinked when he’d pulled the trigger. It was his lack of reaction that concerned him now. Maybe he really was turning into the cold, broken man he was pretending to portray.  

            He had just gathered the last of his possessions and loaded them into the Impala, eager to put some distance between himself and the crime scene he was leaving behind. As he headed for the driver’s door, his primary phone buzzed in his pocket. He dug it out as he climbed into the car. As he slipped the key into the ignition, Sam flipped the phone open and glanced at the screen:

            [1 New Msg: It found me.]

            It felt like someone had sucker-punched him. Sam made himself re-read it two more times before he closed his phone. He’d recognized the number instantly. He didn’t even have to think about it anymore. Layla texted him from it every week and he’d been waiting for a message from her since yesterday but he’d been expecting another fruitless reassurance that she was still looking. He couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t found anything either. They would just have to keep looking until the Trickster slipped up. They were bound to find something eventually.

            Sam blinked and looked down at the phone in his hand then slowly stowed it away and started the Impala. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember why he’d gotten it out but he really wished Layla would text him.

* * * * *

            There were some benefits to going unnoticed, Layla reflected as she ghosted through the hospital’s hallways. Waiting for 25 minutes for someone to be buzzed through to the Psychiatric Ward so she could slip in behind them was not one of them. When a nurse finally exited, Layla almost missed her chance, having been intent on watching for someone who looked like they might enter. She leapt from the wall she was leaning against and thrust an arm in the door before it closed.

            The waiting room was as empty as the day before and the nurse’s station was just as bustling. The same receptionist, Julie, was working the front desk again. Layla made her way over to the circular office area cautiously, careful to dodge away from the overworked staff members who hurried to and from the desks. She found a spot, wedged between a couple of filing cabinets, where the foot traffic flowed safely around her.

            Now what? How was she even supposed to find another patient who’d encountered the Trickster and whose existence so far was completely based on supposition? Better to tackle the problem she did have a solution for, getting a small blood donation from Mike Houder. Maybe she’d even get more information. To do either of those things, however, she’d have to get into his room and she didn’t feel like waiting for a nurse to make the rounds. She needed to grab one of their badges so she could come and go as needed. She really didn’t want to be stuck in here if something went wrong….like if she suddenly became visible. That would be just her luck.

            She quickly surveyed the groups of workers and when a pair of doctors approached the desk and began conferring with the staff, she chose her target. A slender, dark-skinned woman with short cropped hair was obviously the senior member of the pair, judging from the way everyone deferred to her in the conversation. Layla had no idea who would have access to which rooms but the way this woman carried herself, Layla doubted there were many places she couldn’t go.

            Lifting the badge was relatively complicated. Picking pockets was one thing but Layla couldn’t casually bump into a doctor on a secure ward. To make matters worse, she wasn’t sure how much contact with the doctor might make her suddenly visible to the woman. She couldn’t risk that. Someone might grab her and if someone grabbed her, they might lock her up; if they locked her up and walked away, they’d forget about her forever.

            In the end, Layla erred on the side of caution and approached the woman with an appropriated pen. The doctor’s companion, a shorter man with greying hair, had laid a stack of charts on the desk near where he leaned in conversation. With a prayer that the action wouldn’t suddenly make her visible, Layla shoved the files off the desk. The plastic clipboards rattled loudly as thy struck the tile floor and bucked off the files they’d been holding.

            The group of workers turned and looked at the files curiously and that was all the distraction Layla needed, just a second where no one in the group was looking at her target. She still wasn’t sure how this invisibility thing worked and the last thing she needed was for them all to see the woman’s badge float away. As soon as the folders hit the ground, Layla stuck the tip of the pen under the badge’s clip and flicked it from the lip of the woman’s pocket. She snagged it out of the air with a satisfied grin and began to back away as the group’s attention shifted to the other doctor. The man apologized through a befuddled expression as he knelt and began gathering the files with the help of the other staff.

            Layla jogged down the hallway towards Mike Houder’s room. Now she just had to figure out what to do with Mike. The guy was a sleaze-ball, sure, but Layla wasn’t sure how much psychological trauma she was willing to inflict, even if he wouldn’t remember the specifics later. She was going to have to touch him to be seen or heard but he hadn’t even been able to look at her. What if he saw her and wouldn’t quit screaming? How was he going to react if she pulled out a knife? It wasn’t like she knew how to draw blood professionally. She was sure it was harder than it looked and she didn’t even know where to find needles. She wasn’t about to go searching for a supply closet and the right phlebotomy equipment.

            As she rounded the corner of the hallway that led to Mike’s room, the orderly from the day before, Danny, was approaching from the other direction. Layla noticed him just in time and they managed to avoid colliding with one another. Layla let out a sigh of relief as she continued down the hall. That definitely would have been bad since he would instantly recognize her and …

            Layla froze in place as her brain replayed what had just happened. _They_ had avoided _each other_. She may have moved, but Danny had sidestepped too. He had _seen_ her; but, more importantly, he had pretended not to.  

            Layla whirled on her heel and sprinted back to the intersection just in time to see a door halfway down the hall swing closed. She jogged towards it cautiously, glancing around for any other place that the orderly might have gone but the other doors were closed and he wasn’t among the people in the hall. She glanced at the sign on the wall beside the door.

            _Huh. So the storage rooms are pretty easy to find._

            At least that meant he wasn’t going to disappear on her…she hoped. Still, she had to do something fast. She pulled the stake from her inside pocket and glared at it thoughtfully for a moment then retrieved the folding knife from her outside pocket. If Mike Houder was a victim, then she was pretty sure she knew exactly where to find another one.

            Layla shoved the sleeve of her jacket up and dragged the knife across her right forearm. She was careful not to slice too deeply but she didn’t have time for a slow trickle either. The blade was well-honed and caused little pain as the blood began to drip steadily from the small cut.

            At least she was about to walk into a room full of bandages, she thought as held her arm over of the stake. She turned the stake slowly in the rivulet of blood and by the time the tip was coated in crimson, the flow of blood was already begun to slow. She had no idea how much she needed, or if “victim” even applied to someone the Trickster left alive, but she didn’t have any better options and she couldn’t let this opportunity pass. Layla closed the knife against her leg, tucked it away and shifted the stake to her right hand.

            She slid her stolen key card through the scanner beside the door and stepped inside. There was no muffling the click of the lock as the door pulled itself closed behind her but Danny, who was cataloguing one of the many large shelves that filled the room, didn’t appear to notice. Layla crept silently forward, the blood now running down her arm and over the stake, dripping slowly onto the floor. She paused a few feet away. Just because he had seen her didn’t mean this guy was definitely the Trickster and the thing about stabbing monsters in the heart with stakes was that it tended to be fatal to regular people too. Maybe this was more of the Trickster’s messed up mind games; maybe he was trying to see if she’d stab an innocent man in her growing paranoia.

            But how did you test for a Trickster? Layla had seen photos from the cases Sam had told her about during their first and only conversation about it. Danny didn’t look like the Trickster she had seen but that obviously didn’t mean anything. Her mind raced for some conclusive way of knowing but arrived at nothing other than confronting the man.

            “Danny,” she said as she stepped up behind him. The orderly didn’t turn or make any sign that he had noticed. Layla gritted her teeth and edged around until she was standing beside him.

            “Danny,” Layla repeated. “If you can hear me, you better turn and face me or I swear to God I’m going to punch you right in the face.”

            The orderly didn’t so much as blink and Layla was starting to think she’d been mistaken. Maybe it was just another trick. Well, there was only one way to know.

            Layla’s swing started in her hips.   It wasn’t the hardest punch she could throw, but it had a good bit of her weight behind it and the stake functioned as a make shift fist-pack; she knew it would stagger anyone human.

            When Layla’s fist connected with the orderly’s jaw, it felt like she had punched a wall. She instantly stumbled back, clutching at her wrist as she tried to massage away the throbbing pain.

            “That was rude,” Danny commented mildly and rubbed his jaw, frowning at the streak of blood that had rubbed off of Layla’s fist. “I gotta say though: I thought you were bluffing.”

            As he turned towards Layla, a ripple ran over the orderly’s frame, a brief shimmer of gossamer blue light, and the smear of her blood dissolved from his features as they shifted. His hair darkened to brown and lengthened slightly and his eyes turned a vibrant golden-brown. Suddenly, Layla was staring at the face she’d been hunting for months.          

            The Trickster grinned, obviously appreciating the look of recognition.

            “I don’t get why you’re so upset,” he continued. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Anonymity?” the man asked with a smile, his honey brown eyes flashing with mischief and self-satisfaction. He spread his hands before him and gave Layla a playful wink as he continued. “Well, you got it, girly, in spades.”

            “It was you. You did this to me,” Layla stated, the stake held at her side, low and wary.

            “Ding, ding, ding. Someone get the lady a prize,” he said smugly, voice resounding with the nasal quality of a carnival barker, “….but not a very big one because I really thought you’d have figured it out before now.”

            “You wanted me to figure it out?” Layla’s brow furrowed in confusion.

            The Trickster began to step towards her and she countered his step cautiously so that they ended up circling each other. The Trickster seemed greatly amused by this, a wide smile splitting his features as he paced, then hesitated, then paced again. Layla’s stride stuttered and the Trickster laughed. In response to her hateful glare, he came to a halt and raised a hand as if offering to dance, his smile suddenly beaming with charm. When she only continued to scowl at him, he waved the hand as if suddenly bored with the game.

            “Don’t you get it? I don’t care,” he arranged the words around long pauses for emphasis. “Figure it out, don’t figure it out. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything. I saw you coming a mile away, Layla Parker.”

            Layla tried not to let her surprise register on her face. She hadn’t given that name to anyone in town or said it since her arrival. Did that mean he knew about her plan with Sam? She had no way of knowing so she’d just have to keep going like nothing had changed and pray that this thing couldn’t read her mind. She didn’t have to respond, however, as the Trickster continued, his tone suddenly serious.

            “I’ll give you credit for coming at me but it’s a little outside your usual milieu, isn’t it? You really should have stuck to your wheelhouse." He smirked knowingly and rocked back on his heels. "Demons, that’s your specialty, right?”

            Layla froze warily. A hint of sinister implication crouched in his question and lingered beneath his meaningful expression.

            “What would you know about it?” she inquired.

            “Oh, I know what was supposed to happen to you but didn’t and what still could if you’re not careful,” he laughed again, obviously pleased by his own circumlocution.

            “What the hell does that mean?”

            “Do I look like Miss Cleo to you? Uh-uh. I don’t just hand out information. I teach lessons. Whole different system. Try her 900 number….oh, but I guess you can’t, huh?” The Trickster shot her an overstated frown of mock sympathy.

           “On the bright side,” he continued, shifting quickly back into his puckish demeanor, “You can continue your favorite hobbies of petty larceny and demon hunting. You’ll be perfect.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper and cupped a hand around his mouth conspiratorially: “They’ll never see you coming.”

            “Why not just kill me?” Layla spat. Existing completely alone, completely forgotten and cut off had come as a shocking and unpleasant surprise. She had never realized how much she depended on human interaction just to function, just to…stay human.

            “C’mon,” he said amiably, “I’m not a bad guy and you…” he dropped his hand to gesture towards the stake which Layla still gripped firmly in her blood-stained hand, “You’re not half-bad yourself but you don’t belong here. You’re not part of this story.”

            “Yeah, I have a bad habit of going where I’m not wanted.”

            The Trickster threw his head back with a sharp laugh.

            “Ain’t that the truth,” he stated rhetorically. He fell silent then shrugged and tilted his head to the side. “Well, it won’t matter anymore. You’ll find that not much of what you do matters anymore. Now I’d say it’s been fun but the fun’s just starting,” the Trickster began to raise a hand, fingers posed theatrically pre-snap.   

            “Please…” Layla spoke over the last half of his sentence and the Trickster froze, hand half raised. “Please…” she repeated, “you can’t leave me like this.”

            The Trickster gave a melodramatic sigh, rolling his eyes towards the sky as if praying for patience. He let his hand fall.

            “Oh, really? Why can’t I?” He turned a look of exaggerated expectation on Layla, gesturing to the stake in her hand once more. “It’s better than what you would do to me. I didn’t start this.”

            “You started all of this!” Layla snapped before she could control her temper. “You killed …” Layla trailed off as she realized she was dangerously close to giving away what had really brought her after the Trickster. “…people and tortured them,” she quickly amended..

            “Pff. Please.” The Trickster rolled his eyes and stepped forward, stopping just out of arm’s reach. “There are no innocents here. Everyone gets what they ask for, what they deserve.”

            “I didn’t ask for this.”

            “Didn’t you?” he asked smugly, chin drawing down as he gave a satisfied giggle under his breath.

            Layla avoided the question, knowing that she couldn’t deny her propensity for remaining forgettable. Maybe she hadn’t asked for it but it was definitely an extension of her behavior.  

            “Who are you to play judge and jury?” Layla demanded rather than answering.

            “The question is: who’s going to stop me?”

            “I will. Either you undo this or I’ve got a brand new specialty. I will spend every minute of every day of the rest of my life hunting you.”

            “Join the club. Better yet, form a support group,” the Trickster replied with laugh.

            “That’s kind of hard when no one can see me…or remember me…or whatever the hell you did.”

            Layla realized she was gripping the stake in a white knuckled fist. She couldn’t draw this out much longer. She wasn’t getting anywhere and this dodgy bastard wasn’t going to give anything away, especially when she had to keep dancing around the issue. She forced her arm and the rest of her body to go loose and she stepped forward slowly, locking her gaze with the Trickster’s. The man frowned at the stake in her hand and backed away, hands held up in an innocent posture.

            “Sorry, kiddo. That’s not how this goes. You wanted to be invisible, you got it. But if it’s any consolation, I’ll be leaving town. I’m sure you’d just try to ruin any fun I’d have here and I’ve got other appointments. There’s bigger game afoot. Look me up in a couple years. Maybe things will be different.”

            The Trickster chuckled at some private joke and gave her a knowing wink; then, with a snap of his fingers and just a hint of a lingering, blue-tinted shimmer, he was gone.

            Layla stared blankly at the empty space then sank dejectedly onto her knees, the stake clattering noisily on the floor as it tumbled from numb fingers. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, trying to absorb not only her own situation, but the full impact of her defeat, desperately searching for a plan. Sam was alone now and if he couldn’t corner the Trickster, she would all but disappear and Dean would be gone forever.

            Layla sighed and collected the fallen stake as she rose to her feet. She helped herself to some gauze and bandages from the shelf then headed for the exit. She had a brand new specialty to perfect and she was going to have to do it alone. She’d head for Kinsey’s and latch onto her friend until she could make her call Sam. Then she’d have to let go…completely.

* * * * *

Sam drove west on the basis that most of the country was west of his current position. He didn’t have a new case and he didn’t have a lead on the Trickster. The prolonged lack of contact from Layla was an added burden, gnawing at the back of his mind like an itch he couldn’t reach. If he didn’t hear from her soon, she was going to end up his next case. He might have started looking already if he had any idea where to start.

            The obvious place to start, of course, was by calling her or sending a message. They’d agreed to radio silence, however, and he didn’t want to break that. Maybe she was close to something. He couldn’t risk revealing her if that was the case. He’d wait at least another 24 hours before panicking. He had enough worrying on his plate as it was. He didn’t need to worry about this until he was sure it was something worth worrying about.

            A large, blue sign on the side of the road welcomed him to West Virginia. The soft, round outline of the Appalachians marched into the twilight and he decided to follow the next sign towards a motel rather than continue driving. As much as Sam hated to stop moving and travelling, quelling with action the clamorous tides of emotion that waited to ambush him the moment he let his guard down, he needed the rest. He’d been up and on guard for almost 48 hours. He wasn’t going to do anyone any good if he didn’t get some sleep.

            He checked into the motel, forced down a meal he forgot moments later, then reviewed a stack of reports he’d read a million times until the text started to blur under his sleep-deprived gaze. When Sam was certain that he could succumb quickly to slumber, he made his way to the bed and lay down. He managed a few fitful hours of sleep before he woke to the sound of his cell phone ringing.

* * * * *

            It took only a little over five hours for Layla to reach Kinsey’s place. The Sheriff’s house was a quaint two-story, painted white and encircled by a wrap-around porch. It sat on a low hill, protectively overlooking the town that sprawled lazily along the banks of the Mississippi.       

            Layla’s headlights sent the shadows skittering shyly among the trunks of the cottonwood trees that lined the drive. It was going on four in the morning so she flipped the headlights off once she was close and parked alongside her friend’s SUV, owned and marked by the Sheriff’s department.

            Layla frowned at the knot of tension coiling in her stomach. Any other time, the sight of this house would have been a welcome relief, full with the knowledge that her journeying and battles were done for a time. This visit felt too much like bringing the battle with her.

            Getting into Kinsey’s house wasn’t going to be a problem. Layla kept a key to Kinsey’s house under the insole of her favorite boots. She figured her shoes would be the last thing she’d give up if things ever got really hairy. A few moments work of unlacing her boots and wrestling out the insole and she had her key.  The house’s alarm would be simple as well; she knew the alternating series of codes that Kinsey programmed into the system.

            Layla took a deep breath as she finished re-lacing her boot, then exited the vehicle and made her way inside the house. She didn’t bother sneaking since she wasn’t going be heard anyway and quickly made her way up the stairs and into Kinsey’s room.

            Layla debated about turning on the light as she entered but decided against it. Waking up with a friend’s hand on your arm was one thing; waking up because an invisible force turned on the lights and then grabbed hold of you and materialized wearing the face of your friend was something completely different. Kinsey might not take time to converse with something like _that_ before shooting or stabbing or smacking it with a lamp. The open curtains allowed enough moonlight to dimly illuminate the room in a silvery glow and Layla hoped that would be enough as she crossed to the queen-sized bed. She hesitated, looking down at her sleeping friend pensively. The woman lay on her right side, arm buried under the pillow and her back to Layla.

_Well, this doesn’t feel stalkery at all…_

            As she extended one hand to grip Kinsey’s wrist, she preemptively raised the other in a non-threatening pose. The moment her fingers closed around her friend’s arm, the woman bolted upright and Layla found herself staring down the muzzle of a snub-nose .357.

            “Holy fuck, Kinsey. You’re going to blow your head off one of these days,” Layla said quickly, hoping her friend would recognize her voice in the wan lighting. She wondered briefly if leaving the light off was the wrong decision.

            “Jesus, Layla. What the fuck are you doing?” Kinsey questioned as she lowered the weapon from between Layla’s eyes. Layla noticed however that she did not un-cock the revolver or cease pointing it in her direction completely. Kinsey absently tried to pull her arm away and Layla clamped down harder. Kinsey scowled as she pulled more firmly and there was an awkward moment of tug-of-war.

            “Kinsey, will you fucking quit? I can’t let go!”      

            “What do you mean you can’t let go?”         

            “Because you’ll forget me if I do!”

            Kinsey’s mouth opened as if she was going to laugh but she noticed Layla’s distraught tone and her face settled into a concerned, serious mask. She eased the hammer of the revolver down and set it on the bedside stand, flipping on the lamp.

            “Layla. Breathe. I’m not going to forget you. But first…” She picked up the glass of water sitting next to the bed and extended it to Layla.

            “Drink,” she ordered.

            “Seriously, Kinsey? I’m not fucking possessed. I’m invisible,” Layla protested but accepted the glass.

            “You don’t look invisible,” her friend commented patiently as she dug a slender knife from the drawer in the night stand.

            “Damn it, Kinsey” Layla grumbled but obediently took a shot of the holy water and extended her forearm for a small scratch with the silver blade.

            “Fine. Now tell me what’s going on. And you can let go of my arm any time now. I’m not going to forget you.”

            “You will. You have to trust me ‘cause I can’t prove it. If I let go, I’ll just disappear and you’ll forget I’m here until I make you remember again…but you’ll forget that you forgot…”

            “Layla…stop. You’re rambling and I just fucking woke up. You’re not doing yourself any favors skipping to the end.”

            Layla sighed heavily and sank onto the edge of Kinsey’s bed, still clutching the woman’s arm as if holding on for her life.

            “I fucked up, Kinsey. I’ve been tracking a Trickster for Sam…Sam Winchester…”

            “A Trickster? Layla, you’re fucking crazy. You should have told me.”

            “I know! I know…I just couldn’t risk word getting around…I couldn’t risk it finding me before I found it…” Layla’s voice trailed off and Kinsey nodded slowly.

            “I’m guessing that didn’t work out like you planned?” Kinsey asked, glancing pointedly down to Layla’s hand on her arm.

            “To say the least. So I need you to warn Sam, Kinsey. I can’t call anyone, I can’t even text…at least, no one responds. It’s like the Trickster made me completely forgettable.”

            “Layla, I was talking to Gavin about you tonight at dinner. The boy keeps asking why you never come round anymore. No one’s forgotten you…” Layla could detect a shift in the tone of concern in Kinsey’s voice and she scowled in frustration.

            “Kinsey. I’m not fucking crazy. Maybe you just can’t remember anything new. How many times have I texted you in the last 12 hours?”

            “None.”

            “Try eight, at least. Where’s your phone?”

            Kinsey retrieved her cell from the bedside stand and handed it to Layla. Layla slid the phone open and started scrolling through her friend’s Inbox.

            “What the hell, Kinsey? Did you delete them?”

            “I’m telling you I didn’t get any.”

            “And I’m telling you I fucking sent them.”

            The two woman glared stubbornly at each other for a long moment. Kinsey broke of the staring contest first, unnerved by her friend’s sudden ability to withstand her professionally-honed withering stare. Layla always looked away first, at least from Kinsey. Something was really wrong.      

            “Layla, think. You know I always delete those messages, any messages from my people. But I believe you…”

            “No you don’t. You’re just worried…but I know how to prove it. Call Gavin in here.”

            “It’s 4 a.m.”

            “Kinsey! I’m invisible!” Layla hesitated under her friend’s dubious expression, pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. She dropped the hand a moment later, gesturing uncertainly with it as she proceeded:

            “Okay. Kind of invisible. Unnoticeable. Undetectable. Forgettable. I don’t know what the hell to call it or how to explain it. I just know I’m ….I’m human fucking elevator music!”

            Kinsey frowned as Layla’s voice grew increasingly louder over the course of her outburst but it was a thoughtful expression at the end and she cocked her head as if listening for a far-off sound.

            “Undetectable…like Gavin wouldn’t have heard you yelling just now?”

            Layla blinked and glanced in the direction of the teenager’s room across the hall.

            “Yeah. Like that.”

            Kinsey nodded and took her phone from Layla’s hand. She pressed a few buttons then held the device to her ear.

            “Gavin? No…everything’s fine, baby. Don’t worry. I just need you to come here for a minute.”

            Kinsey hung up the phone and there was a knock on the door a few seconds later. The door creaked open and a sleepy-eyed teen with short-cropped black curls popped his head through the crack.

            “What’s up, mom?”

            “Hey, Gavin! Nice to see you!” Layla said, waving her free hand with sarcastic enthusiasm. Kinsey ignored her friend, addressing her son instead, who remained oblivious to Layla’s boisterous greeting.

            “You remember how we were talking about Layla not coming around tonight?” Kinsey asked.

            The young man nodded, his expression confused and tinged with worry at this unexpected line of questioning.

            “Yeah. Why?”

            “It’s fine, Gavin. Layla’s….” Kinsey glanced over at her friend, who was sitting beside her on the bed, gripping her arm and wearing a vindicated expression, “…fine. I just need to know if you’ve seen anything strange? Or heard from her?”

            The boy shook his head again and Layla’s temporary amusement faded at his concerned expression.

            “Is everything okay, mom? Did something happen?”

            “Everything’s fine, Gavin. Layla’s okay.”

            “Are you?” the young man asked, his brown eyes knowing and sincere. “I know you hate it when she disappears.”

            Kinsey froze at her son’s choice of words; Layla frowned as well.

            “I’m fine, baby. Go back to sleep.”

            The boy nodded and started to leave, pulling the door shut behind him. Just before closing it completely, he paused and poked his head back into the room.

            “Don’t worry, mom. She’ll be alright. She always is.” Then he exited, leaving the two women to bask in the awkward silence that rolled across the room on the tail of his words.

            Layla had always known Kinsey worried, or at least she joked about worrying, but that’s all that Layla had ever taken it to heart. It was a joke. Kinsey nagged, Layla snarked and that was the way of the world. She never really considered before that Kinsey would actually _worry_ …not really. For possibly the first time, Layla really put herself in the other woman’s position.          

            Theresa McKinsey was a skilled hunter who had cordoned off a safe zone from the supernatural as Sheriff of her little village, as much as anyone could. She continued her work outside her jurisdiction via a network of other hunters like Layla…but not just hunters, _friends_ like Layla. Sure, Kinsey kept out of the line of fire as much as she could - she had Gavin to think about, after all - but that didn’t mean she wasn’t aware of the dangers. She probably knew them better than most.

            Suddenly, Layla had a new respect for the time her friend spent doling out information and leads, waiting for replies or for news that no reply would be coming. What did that feel like? To send a friend to their death and not even know until it was too late? To have nothing to do but wait? It was a necessity of the position and Kinsey’s position kept Layla and a lot of other hunters safe but Layla had never appreciated the weight of those decisions or the sleepless nights spent wondering and second-guessing.

            “So…you believe me now?” Layla asked, forcing herself to ignore her friend’s embarrassed expression.

            “I didn’t not believe you before…I just needed to see it work. So the Trickster did this? You’re sure? Do you have any leads on where he is now?”

            “Yes, yes and no.”

            “So why the sudden interest in the Trickster? Why did you suddenly ju-….Ooh,” Kinsey’s words stumbled to a halt as her mouth caught up to the connection her brain had already made.

            “This has to do with the other Winchester boy, doesn’t it?”

            “You heard?”

            “Layla, everyone’s heard. I should have known when word got around to me right after you dropped off the map. Honestly, I was too busy worrying about you to pay much attention to the death of Dean Winchester. Hardly gave it a second thought.”

            Layla grimaced at Kinsey’s blunt statement of fact but her friend had never known Dean and was a pragmatist before all else. Of course she wouldn’t worry about a stranger when her friend was practically MIA.

            “Well, you’re right.” Layla admitted grudgingly, “Sam called me just after it happened. He says he can undo it, that the Trickster can take us back to before Dea-….before it all happened. So he asked for my help tracking this thing since no one really knew that he knew me…”

            “…so you went deep off the grid because you thought if we all started digging, it would put too much heat on your search,” Kinsey finished knowingly and with just a touch of smugness. “How’d that work out? Hunting a demi-god solo? You’re good, Layla, but no one’s that good. These aren’t forgotten forest spirits half-crazed with hunger like most of the nasty, little godlings hunters usually encounter. These things are big, probably even bigger than we can understand.”

            “So I learned the hard way. But we have to do something, Kinsey. I have to warn Sam if nothing else. He’s still going after this thing and now that I’m out of play, he really is working alone. You have to call him and warn him. Tell him what happened. I’m hoping he can remember if it comes from you instead of me.”

            “So I’m really …not going to remember this when you leave?”

            “Kinsey, you won’t remember this before I make it out of the room and you won’t even see me leave.”

            The woman sighed and nodded somberly.

            “Give me the details so we can figure out your next step and what Sam needs to know.”

* * * * *

            Layla gave a brief account of the events leading up to her own “disappearance” and the failed showdown with the Trickster. She tried to provide as much detail as possible but her memories after the realization were blurred; her mind’s ability to retain information had been seriously hampered by its frantic scramble to make sense of what was happening. Kinsey remained silent during the bulk of the story, only stopping her as she neared the very end.

            “Wait…what did he say when he left? Exactly?” she asked

            “I don’t know, Kinsey. I didn't record the conversation or anything.”

            “As much as you can remember.”

            “Something about…I should look him up in a couple years. And…he was going to leave town because I would ruin his fun and something about having….oh…” Layla stopped, eyes growing wide as a sneaking suspicion began to loom in her mind.

            “What?” Kinsey asked impatiently.

            Layla blinked and fixed on her friend.

            “He said he had bigger game, Kinsey.”

            “So?”

            “He’s going after Sam.”

            “That’s a hell of a leap.”

            “You would get the joke if you’d met Sam Winchester. The guy’s like 6’5” and built like brick wall.”

            “I guess I’d better get dialing then,” Kinsey said and slid open her phone. She entered in the number that Layla recited and listened to it ring.

            After the second ring, Layla smacked a hand to her forehead in realization.

            “Shit. He’s not gonna answer. You’re gonna have to leave a message and get him to call you back. Tell him who you are, use my name and say you’ve got information. Nothing more. He’d be suspicious if there was more.”

            Kinsey nodded and waited for the voicemail to kick in then recited the information Layla had provided. The women sat in tense silence after she hung up, both staring at the lifeless screen breathlessly. They didn’t have to wait long, however. Kinsey answered the call as soon as the screen illuminated, before the ring or vibration even had a chance to start.

            “This is Kinsey.”

            The voice on the other end of the line was guarded and curt.

            “And? Where’s Layla?”

            Kinsey shot an annoyed look at Layla who rolled her eyes in exasperation.

            “Tell him you’re the bolt-hole I wouldn’t tell him about at the hospital.”

            “Look, Sam. I’m the bolt-hole Layla wouldn’t tell you about. The one from the hospital. Ring any bells?”

            There was a pause on the line and when Sam continued, he still didn’t sound very convinced.

            “So why didn’t she call?”

            Layla shrugged under Kinsey’s questioning gaze.

            “Just tell him. There’s no way around it.”

            “Sam…the Trickster found her. She’s fine… I mean, she’s not injured…she just can’t talk to you...”

            “What the hell does that mean? Did he take her somewhere?”

            “No. She’s here…”

            “Then put her on. Let me talk to her,” Sam interjected.

            “Gladly,” Layla commented bitterly.

            “You can’t,” Kinsey continued.

            “Listen, I don’t have time for games. What the hell happened to Layla?”

            Layla winced at Sam’s sharp tone and the stern expression that settled on Kinsey’s features in response.

            “Sam Winchester, I don’t play games. Layla’s my friend too, and was long before she ever heard your name. Now I’m trying to help you both so why don’t you calm down and shut the hell up long enough for me to explain? You think this is what I want to be doing at four o’clock in the damn morning?”

            A long silence waiting to be filled was the only response to Kinsey’s admonishment.

            “Thank you,” she cleared her throat before proceeding. “Layla’s here, right next to me but the Trickster did some hoodoo on her that makes people…ignore her, I guess, or maybe instantly forget her. We’re not sure how it works. She can hear you but you can’t hear her. ”

            “But you can?”

            “Only ‘cause she has a death grip on my arm. When she lets go, I’m going to forget all of this apparently. We’re hoping that this, me calling you, will be a loophole, that you’ll remember what I say.”

            “Why should I believe any of this?”

            Kinsey looked to Layla for an answer to that question. Layla’s mind searched furiously for some comment, some exchange from their previous encounters that would make him believe that she was really the source of this information. It couldn’t just be something they’d said; the Trickster had proven he knew more than they’d assumed. It had to be something Sam knew she would say. Layla sighed and ran an exasperated hand down her face then gave Kinsey her message.

            “She says and I quote: ‘because right now hope is slightly more useful than a wet noodle…. or until our next debate.’ That mean something to you?” Kinsey asked in a puzzled tone.

            There was just a hint of a laugh, more a sharp exhalation than a chuckle, but the suspicious tone drained from Sam’s voice.

            “Yeah. That’s Layla. So where’s the Trickster? Does she know? Cornering him’s gonna be the only way to fix this and bring Dean ba…”

            “You’re right, it is,” Kinsey intervened, catching the glance from Layla that warned her not to let Sam go down that path. “And you’re gonna fix all of it but, Sam, we think this thing’s already coming for you.”

            “I had a feeling you were going to say that.”

            Layla and Kinsey exchanged a confused, worried look.

            “Why?” Kinsey inquired for the both of them.

            “Because I got a call from Bobby Singer a few hours ago. I’m on my way back to Broward County now to meet him. He said he found a way to trap the Trickster.”

            “That’s one hell of a coincidence,” Kinsey said doubtfully, shushing Layla’s string of vehement curses with a distracted wave of her hand.

            “I don’t believe in that kind of coincidence. But I have to be sure. Maybe the Trickster is luring Bobby there too. I can’t risk that,” Sam finished solemnly.

            “Good point. But how are you going to know?”

            “I don’t know of any way to test for sure; nothing that the Trickster couldn’t fake or get out of. I’m just going to have to keep playing this role and hope I know Bobby well enough to tell.”

            “See, Sam? I was right the first time. Hope makes people do stupid things!” Layla shouted at the phone in Kinsey’s hand. “You can’t bet Bobby’s life that the Trickster can’t impersonate him, or make you see him wrong, or make him act not like himself! You have to know!”

            “Damn it, Layla, will you hush?” Kinsey rubbed her ear with her free hand. “Yelling won’t make him hear you. It’s just gonna make me deaf.”

            “What?” Sam inquired in a suspicious tone. “What’s she saying?”

            “She doesn’t like the plan,” Kinsey relayed tactfully. “She thinks the Trickster could make Bobby act differently…or make you see him wrong. She says you have to know going in.”

            “That would be great if there was a way. But this could be my only shot…to fix all of this, to save Dean and undo whatever he did to Layla.”

            “And if you’re wrong?” Kinsey countered. “Could you live with that?”

            There was another long silence on the line before Sam responded in a solemn tone:

            “I’d keep hunting him till he fixed that too.”

            “How about we look for proof before we go looking for more revenge?” Layla commented and Kinsey relayed her words.

            “What else am I supposed to do?” Sam demanded in a frustrated tone.

            Kinsey looked to Layla, shrugging to indicate her own lack of a plan. Layla reviewed a mental list of scenarios, dismissing most of them immediately. Only one idea provided any hint of usefulness and finally she had to accept it was the best she had.

            “Ask him how long until he meets with Bobby.”

            “How long till you meet?” Kinsey repeated into the phone.

            “I’m about eight hours out. He’s there already. We’ll probably meet as soon as I get to town,” came Sam’s reply.

            “Kinsey, you know where Bobby lives?” Layla asked.

            “Sioux Falls, South Dakota.”

            “More specifically? Can you get me to his place?”

            Kinsey pondered for a moment then nodded slowly. “I think so. I mean, it’s a junkyard. It’s gotta be hard to miss.”

            Layla did some quick mental arithmetic then nodded and began rattling off a message for Kinsey to relay.

            “Sam, I know how to be sure but I can’t risk telling you. Keep going like you were planning but don’t do anything final until you hear from me again. I’ll be in touch in nine hours.”

            Layla wished she was half as confident of that last sentence as she made herself sound but, worst case scenario, she could always grab a stranger, literally, and make them call Sam, at gunpoint if necessary. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that but any temporary trauma would be forgotten after all.

            “Fine. You’re right. Or she’s right. Whatever.” Sam gave a frustrated sigh. “I’ll give her nine hours, just to be sure. If I haven’t heard anything, I’m doing what seems right.”

            “Fair enough. But we need to be sure you’re even going to remember this,” Kinsey continued, playing middleman to Layla’s half of the conversation. “Sometimes it takes a second for the effects to kick in. So wait a few minutes and call back. If we haven’t heard from you in five, we’ll assume you forgot.”

            “Can’t I write myself a note or something?” Sam asked. Kinsey looked to Layla expectantly and Layla shrugged again in exasperation.

            “How the fuck am I supposed to know? Just because I’m invisible doesn’t make me an expert on it all of a sudden. But I doubt it would be that simple. What about the texts I sent? To you and to Sam? I’m guessing as soon as you’re not looking at it, you’re going to forget it.”

            Kinsey related the message to Sam and he accepted the answer after a surprised reaction to the information that he had received text messages he couldn’t remember. They hung up a few minutes later and Layla and Kinsey settled in to wait, wordlessly watching the time tick by on the clock beside Kinsey’s bed. Four minutes passed exactly and Kinsey’s phone rang again.

            Kinsey slid it open and turned on the speaker phone.

            “Sam?” she greeted, her voice both hopeful and nervous.

            “Yeah, Kinsey. What’s up? You hear something from Layla?”

            Kinsey blinked in confusion and looked to Layla who shrugged helplessly again.

            “Yeah, Sam. I heard from her. How’d you know to call me?”

            “You left me a message to call, remember? You okay, Kinsey?” Sam sounded sincerely confused and concerned.

            “Uh…yeah. I’m fine, Sam…” she covered the phone with her palm and addressed her friend beside her. “What the fuck just happened, Layla?”

            “Why do you keep asking me? I don’t fucking know. I guess he remembers part of it, including you. See what else he remembers.”

            Kinsey removed her hand and cleared her throat to cover for her momentary silence.

            “Sam, this is going to sound strange…but how did you meet me?”

            “I haven’t, not really. You called with a message from Layla…”

            “When, Sam? When was that?” Kinsey interrupted in an urgent tone. The distant echoes of an engine and the rush of air through an open window were the only noises audible from the phone for a long moment.

            “I …uh…don’t remember. It was a while ago. A couple weeks, maybe?” Sam’s voice was perturbed and muddled, like someone trying to provide information on a dream of which only pieces remain.

            “And I left you a message tonight for you to call me now?”

            “Yeah. Didn’t you?”

            “No…well, yes. It’s…complicated,” Kinsey sighed heavily and looked to Layla again, her expression suddenly laden with sympathy for her friend’s predicament.

            “So he can remember the basics…sort of …just nothing specifically about me, like his brain’s filling in gaps with whatever makes sense,” Layla nodded thoughtfully. “I can work with that. Just tell him not to stab Bobby till he gets a sign.”

            Kinsey nodded and looked back at the phone in her hand.

            “Sam, something’s happened. I know you’re on your way to meet Bobby but there are some things you need to know first. Unfortunately, you’re not going to remember the details so you’re just going to have to take my word for this…”

* * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope no one 's too upset about the drastic change in....well, everything. Not to worry. We all know everything goes back to normal. Right?
> 
> Mwahahaha. XD


	3. Racing the sun - Meanwhile, in Broward County... - The Way Things Were

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Sam knew what he was facing when he walked into that room, he would have stabbed the man when they hugged. Everyone knows Bobby would sacrifice himself to save either of the Winchester boys. How could Sam know for sure? Would he bet Bobby's life on a maybe?

* * * * *Now * * * * *

            The urge to floor the gas pedal was a constant struggle as Layla drove north, stopping only when her car demanded to be refueled.  She couldn’t risk speeding too much.  She had to stick to the main highways to make time and she couldn’t risk getting pulled over, let alone a pursuit of any kind.  Every minute was vital now.

            The sun rose in her passenger side window shortly after leaving Kinsey’s.  She marked her progress by its journey across her windshield and it was just sinking towards the driver side when she turned away from it and onto the gravel road that led to Singer Auto Salvage Yard.  She parked her black sedan outside the ramshackle chain-link fence, adorned with panels of aluminum siding and woven with scrawny cedar trees to effectively block the view from the road. 

            Probably better not to drive up to the door.  For all she knew, the car would look empty and a creepy driverless car would just put Bobby on guard before she ever got near him.  The last thing she needed was for him to barricade himself inside or start blasting away with rock-salt.  She checked the clock in the dash then quickly retrieved her keys and climbed from the car.

_So this is the infamous Singer residence…_

            Layla began to crunch her way up the gravel road in a brisk jog towards the entrance, eyeing the dilapidated letters welded to the metal arch over the driveway warily.  She half-expected the next gust of wind to bring the swaying structure down on her head as she passed below.  She stuck to the rutted, main path that led directly towards the large house nestled forlornly among the rusting skeletons of automobiles.   There was no need to hide after all; her invisibility could easily make her hunter-bait but also kept her somewhat safe.

            _Please let Kinsey’s intel be good,_ she prayed as she climbed the stairs onto the porch, senses straining for some sign that the hunter was home.

            Kinsey’s most recent information said Bobby had been tracking from home lately but that intel wasn’t first- or even second-hand, just a reported lack of activity attached to his name and a few hunters who said they’d called the house lately for aliases and information.  But a lack of evidence of him on the road didn’t mean he was home and this entire trip had been a last ditch effort based on her pressing need to fight back and guided by a prayer to lost causes. 

            A thick pall of silence hung over the building and caused a nervous flutter in Layla’s stomach.   The front door to the house was open, however, only the screen door blocking entry to the shady recesses of the building.

            _He has to be here somewhere_ , she reassured herself as she peered through a dusty window beside the door, _or at least close by.  He wouldn’t just leave the place open._

            Layla and Kinsey had debated about calling Bobby directly but had decided it was too risky in the end.  They had already hazarded alerting the Trickster by calling Sam.  If that had gone unnoticed somehow, they decided not to repeat the risk.  Besides, a phone call would have been too easy to fake; they probably would have just wasted time arguing with Bobby, who they knew to be a cautious hunter with no reason to trust the word of two women he’d never met.

            The screen door creaked loudly as Layla pulled it open and made her way into the dark interior of the house.  She made a quick sweep of the downstairs rooms and found them empty.  Books lay open on nearly every available flat surface, as well as being stacked haphazardly on nearly every other.  A few dirty dishes were in the sink but they obviously hadn’t been there long. 

            By the time she returned from a quick circuit of the upper rooms, Layla’s skin had begun to crawl.  The upstairs had been like a museum, most of the rooms, but one in particular, seemed not to have been disturbed in years.  It was like walking through a series of snapshots from a stranger’s life and she felt like an intruder.   She wondered if the stalkery feeling would ever go away if she remained invisible…but then again, maybe that would be worse, thinking this voyeuristic worldview normal. 

             A half-full bottle of whiskey sat on the large desk that dominated the living room and Layla decided to indulge in a quick shot before conducting a search of the grounds and outbuildings.  She needed something to dismiss the sinking feeling gathering in her stomach.  She had only seen a portion of the salvage yard and a few of the buildings it contained when she was approaching the house but she already knew she didn’t have time to search them all. 

            She unscrewed the cap quickly and drank straight from the bottle, nerves unwinding slightly as the liquor’s warmth crawled into her belly.  As she lowered the bottle from her lips, a brief flicker of motion reflected in the glass was all the warning she was provided.

            Layla dropped the bottle and threw herself forward, flat across the top of the desk, just in time to avoid the iron fireplace poker that whistled through the space which her head had just occupied.  Glass shattered as the bottle struck the floor and most of the books were knocked from the desk as Layla rolled herself across it and regained her feet. 

            Layla spun to face a stern, bearded face topped by a blue-and-white trucker’s hat; he glared in her general direction but was apparently unable to focus on her.  She instantly recognized Bobby from the descriptions she’d heard.  He was practically a walking caricature of himself in a sort of epically American way.

            “Balls!” Bobby cursed and began to sidestep further into the room, glass crackling under his boots. 

            Layla’s heart began to settle from a terrified, startled sprint to a marathon pace of anxiety as the man circled towards the desk.  It was almost more unsettling to see someone, who had noticed her somehow, try to see her and fail. 

            That thought was quickly pushed aside under the urgencies of the moment, specifically the nasty, hooked metal rod Bobby was brandishing like a baseball bat.  She really didn’t want to meet the business end of that hunk of metal and he definitely looked edgy enough to take a swing if she grabbed hold of him.  There wasn’t any way around it though and the clock was ticking; Sam was due to meet the Trickster any time now.  Still, she had to feel somewhat vindicated by the realization that she had actual proof that Bobby was here and not in Broward County, Florida.  Now she just had to make her proof believe her. 

            “I don’t know what the hell you are but I know you’re here,” Bobby said as his gaze swept again across the spot where Layla was standing.  “This is your one and only chance to piss off.  You’re only getting that ‘cause I missed the first time.”

            Layla stepped carefully towards his right side.  She wasn’t sure how Bobby had known she was there and she wasn’t sure that he couldn’t hear the crunch of broken glass beneath her boots now.  A confused look crossed Bobby’s face as if his mind was struggling to reject what his senses were reporting.  He gave the distinctive shake of his head a moment later and Layla seized that moment to close the remaining distance and latch onto his arm. 

            Bobby instinctively tried to jerk away from her grasp as a strange woman suddenly materialized before him.

            “Holy shit!” he exclaimed as he stumbled back, trying to twist his arm in her grasp and level a swing of the iron poker in her direction.  Layla clung on for all she was worth, being dragged in a circle as she struggled to maintain her grip on his upper arm while avoiding the path of the fireplace poker. 

            “Bobby!  I’m not a ghost!”

            “I don’t care what you are!  Get the hell off’a me!” 

            “I can’t!  Bobby, I …”

            Bobby spun with a wordless roar and ripped his arm from Layla’s grasp.  He spun around with surprising agility and raised the poker; then he hesitated and the familiar expression of confusion began to seep across his features again.

             Layla groaned in frustration. 

            _Alright then.  No time for pussyfooting around._

            Layla hopped onto the sofa along the wall and used that as a stepping stone to leap onto the older hunter’s back.  She wrapped her arms around his neck and preemptively locked her ankles around his waist, anticipating the startled spin before it began.  She was careful to hold just tight enough not to be shaken off but loose and low enough around his neck not to choke the man. 

            “Son of a bitch!”

            “Bobby!  It’s Layla Parker!  You gotta…” 

            Layla’s words were cut off sharply as Bobby threw himself backwards and let his weight fall on top of her.  Luckily, the couch broke her fall and cushioned some of their landing. 

            “Fuck…” she groaned breathlessly as the air was knocked from her lungs.  Layla barely managed to force the next words out as she gasped for air: “...the Trickster has Sam, Bobby.  You gotta warn him.”

            Bobby’s struggling ceased when Sam’s name left her mouth but he still gripped the iron bar tightly. 

            “Layla Parker?  How do I know you’re you and not some puppet the Trickster sent?”

            “For what?  The world’s worst fucking piggyback ride?” Layla snapped.  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly trying to choke you here.” Layla kept her grip around the man’s neck for the moment nevertheless; she also maintained a wary eye on the fire poker with which Bobby could easily strike behind him or worse, skewer a limb, if he decided she was lying.

            “Then why the hell did you jump on my back?”

            “Because you can’t see me or hear me if I’m not touching you and I don’t have time for you to shake me off again.”

            “What d’you mean again?”

            “That’s what I mean, damn it!  If I let go, you’ll forget me.  The Trickster whammied me and now everyone just…forgets I exist unless I make ‘em.”

            “…by grabbing them?”

            “I guess it’s something your mind can’t ignore.  Think about it Bobby…why were you standing in here with the fire poker in the first place?  Why is there a broken bottle on the floor?  Can’t remember, can you?  You shook me off once already and you forgot.  I couldn’t risk a second time.”

            She could feel some of the tension go out of the other hunter’s frame and she loosened her grip a bit.

            “Okay.  You pass the splash and slash and I’ll listen to you but uh…as cozy as this is…” he trailed off uncomfortably as he indicated Layla’s legs still locked around his waist.

            “If I grab your arm, you’re not gonna shake me off?”

            “You can hold on to my arm all you want.  If I think you’re lying about Sam, I’ll knock your fucking head off.”

            Layla chuckled hoarsely as she untangled her limbs from around his torso and clamped her hand onto his right forearm, deciding to keep some control over his dominant hand in case he decided to try the head bashing after all.  They both straightened awkwardly and cleared their throats.  Bobby rose from the couch and led her over to the desk.  He shifted the poker to his left hand and gestured it towards one of the drawers.

            “Silver and holy water’s in there.”

            “I probably shouldn’t point this out but that stuff’s not gonna prove I’m not one of the Trickster’s creations.”

            “No but it’ll prove you’re not possessed or a shifter or a bunch of other nasty sons of bitches.  I doubt you’re the Trickster himself, not his style.  But if you’re one of his puppets, I know how to find out if he sent you: you’ll vanish if I kill you and that don’t take any special weapon.  So I suggest you make sure I decide not to test that one.”

            Layla grimaced and tried to hide the sidelong glance that she cast towards the iron poker he gripped in his left hand; something about the casual way he held it spoke volumes about his ambidexterity with weaponry.  As she dug out the holy water and took a swig then drew another small line of blood on her arm with the silver knife, she pondered her situation.

            Convincing Kinsey had been one thing; she knew Layla better than anyone and had no personal connection to the Trickster and thus no reason to suspect he had sent a doppel-Layla after her.  Sam knew Layla well enough to recognize her even through relayed messages, mostly because of their pre-Trickster encounters, but Bobby…he’d never even met her before.  She hadn’t even known for sure Bobby would be home.  Hell, she hadn’t even been sure Bobby would know her name but she figured it was a fairly safe assumption between his extensive knowledge of hunting circles and his relationship with the Winchesters.  Certainly one of them would have mentioned something before everyone’s lives had gone to shit….before Dean’s had ended. 

            That thought sent a twist of ice through her gut as it was followed immediately by the realization that bringing Dean back could all hinge on what she did now, on making Bobby believe her; and doing _that_ before the Trickster pulled off whatever he was planning for Sam. She glanced at the clock on Bobby’s mantel.  If that was right, they had less than five more minutes before Sam was going to go ahead with his plan.  Who knew what the Trickster was planning for Sam if he went along with whatever fake-Bobby was proposing?

            “We good?” she asked as she dropped the silver dagger back on the desk.  “Cause time is ticking here.”

            “Yeah.  For now,” Bobby said as he sank into the swivel chair behind the desk, resting the fire poker across his knees.  “So talk fast.”

            “Super short version?  Sam said that you called him, that you’re going to be meeting him in Broward County. Since you’re here, you’re obviously not there.  Hence, Trickster; hence you picking up the phone and texting him to kill that son of a bitch.”

            “You still haven’t told me why I should believe you.”

            “What the hell would the Trickster possibly have to gain from this?  You really think his master plan is a text message?”

            “Dunno,” Bobby stated calmly.  “Maybe his master plan is to make me give Sam the wrong information.  Maybe Sam’s headed to meet Layla and the Trickster wants him to think she’s here.  Maybe losing Dean wasn’t enough.  Maybe he wants to make Sam lose a friend at his own hand because he thinks that’ll make him snap.”

            Layla opened her mouth to protest before she realized that she didn’t have an argument for that.  It was exactly the kind of sneaky, underhanded suspicious thing she would have thought of and she was slightly disappointed in herself that she hadn’t.

            “That is…actually really smart,” she admitted.

            She sank onto the edge of the desk and ran her free hand down her face in exasperation.  She froze with her hand over her mouth as she realized what she had to do.  There was only one way to prove this for sure, only one thing that would prove it beyond a doubt.  Bobby had even said it.  She dropped her hand and gestured to the desk.

            “I assume you have a gun in one of those drawers?”

            “Probably do,” Bobby replied cryptically.  “Why?”

            “I want you to get it out.”

            “You didn’t answer the question.”

            Layla picked up the silver knife from the desk top.

            “Because it’ll be quicker than this knife.”

            “Is that a threat?” Bobby growled.  Almost before Layla could blink, the older hunter had released the fire poker and drew a single action Army Colt .45 from under the desk.  He aimed the Peacemaker at Layla casually.  “…’Cause it wasn’t in the drawer.”

            “Not a threat,” Layla answered in a level voice, flinching only slightly as she set the knife back on the desk and stared down the revolver’s barrel.  “More like asking for mercy.”

            Bobby narrowed his eyes doubtfully, looking for some sign of deception. 

            Layla swallowed drily then continued in a firm tone: “You have to shoot me, Bobby.  If that’s what it takes to end this argument now, to prove that the Trickster didn’t send me, then pull the fucking trigger but you type that text message first ‘cause you might only have a few seconds to send it before you forget…unless of course this mojo breaks when I die.”

            The click of Bobby cocking the hammer back resounded through the room.

            “You sure about that?  You really willing to die to prove your point?”

            Layla forced herself to stare past the barrel of the gun and meet Bobby’s eyes. 

            “I won’t have died if Sam makes the Trickster fix everything, neither will Dean.  None of this will have happened.  So if you’re asking: do I have faith in Sam Winchester?  Then the answer is yes.  And if you’re asking if I’d let you shoot me to bring Dean back, then the answer is also yes.” 

            Bobby held her gaze for a long moment then nodded and un-cocked the revolver, sliding it back into the holster he apparently had installed under his desk.  Layla slumped slightly with relief.  Even if she had been one hundred percent convinced everything would be undone, the idea of having her brains splattered across the room was not an enticing image.

            “You should have just started with that speech,” Bobby said.  “Hand me my phone.  It’s on the floor there for some damn reason.”

            “What are you going to tell him?”

            “Don’t worry about it.  I know what to say.  And afterwards, it will never have been said anyway, right?”

            Layla shrugged, nodded and retrieved his phone for him.  He was taking a whole lot from her on faith; it was only fair to repay him with a little trust. 

            “Right,” she agreed as she handed over the device and Bobby started typing hurriedly into the flip phone’s tiny keyboard.

* * * * *

_“What are you talking about?” Sam’s gaze flicks to the knife which Bobby is proffering only momentarily._

_“Better me than a civilian.” Bobby’s tone is resigned as he offers the blade to Sam on an outstretched palm._

_Sam inhales slowly then locks his eyes with the older hunter.  “You’re crazy, Bobby.  I’m not killing you.”_

_“Oh.  Now I’m the crazy one?” Bobby scoffs but Sam doesn’t seem to find any humor in the joke.  “Look, Sam,” Bobby continues in a weary voice, “I’m old.  I’m comin’ near the end of my trail but you can keep fighting, saving folks, but you need your brother…so let me give him back to ya.”_

_Sam may as well have turned to stone for all the emotion he allows himself to display but deep behind his eyes, he’s clearly processing the man’s offer. Sam shakes his head slightly, eyes suddenly tinged with sadness as he begins to speak:_

_“Bobby…”_

_“You and Dean,” Bobby interjects, “You boys are the closest things I have to family.  I want to do this.”_

_Bobby offers the knife again and Sam accepts it with a sigh._

_“Okay.”_

_“Good,” Bobby replies with a hint of approval. He nods slightly then takes a deep breath and turns his back to Sam, stepping into the circle and kneeling in front of the bowl._

_“Just make it quick,” Bobby says, fixing his gaze into the distance._

_Behind him, Sam reaches into his jacket…_

* * * * * Now * * * * *

Sam kept the cell phone low near his hip as he quickly flipped it open and read the text that had just arrived from Bobby.

            [1 New Msg: Layla’s here.  Stared down another gun for u boys.  So fix this. Idjit.] 

            When the nine hours had passed, Sam had given up hope for any kind of proof, though he didn’t know exactly what he’d been waiting for or why Kinsey had been so secretive about this supposed “sign.” Without it, however, Sam couldn’t have known for sure who or what he was meeting here…or if it really was Bobby.  He knew without a doubt that Bobby would give his life to save Dean or himself but he wasn’t sure killing him was a recourse he was willing to take.  Even with Layla missing and Dean gone these past six months, he still wasn’t sure he could have done it.  All he’d had to go on was coincidence…but now he knew.  He returned the phone to his pocket…

_* * * * *_

_When Sam still hesitates to strike, Bobby urges quietly: “Just do it, son.”_

_“Yeah, okay, Bobby,” Sam says in a grim tone as he withdraws a large wooden stake from the recesses of his coat._

_“But do you want to know why?” Sam asks as he drops to one knee behind the man, quickly snaking an arm around his throat and pressing the weapon against his back.  “Because you’re not Bobby.”_

_With a grunt of effort he shoves the stake up under the ribs and into the man’s heart, blood pouring out and over his hand in a steady stream.  With a groan, the older hunter collapses forward onto the ground._

_Sam watches impatiently for the body to revert to the Trickster’s natural shape or disappear like his creations.  When a long moment passes and the body hasn’t so much as wavered, a look of worry and doubt begins to crawl across Sam’s features._

_“Bobby?” he asks uncertainly.  “Bobby?!”  Sam’s voice cracks as he calls out futilely a third time, “Bobby!”_

_As if in response, the body suddenly ripples as if underwater and then vanishes in a lingering shimmer of blue luminescence.  The stake that had skewered the body clatters to the floor and Sam grits his teeth as understanding dawns.  The stake flies from the floor of its own accord and over Sam’s shoulder.  Sam turns to follow its path just in time to see the Trickster pluck the weapon from the air with a grin._

_“You’re right. I was just screwing with ya.” The Trickster lowers the stake and points it at Sam absently.  “Pretty good though, Sam.  Smart.”_

_* * * * *_

            “So how the hell did you know I was here?  No one else has been able to see or hear me.”

            Bobby shrugged and adjusted his hat thoughtfully.

            “Not really sure.  Everything right before you grabbed me is pretty blurry.  I was in the basement, going over some of the wards I got laid under this place and it was like…I just kept hearing something but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.  You been doing this as long as I have, you listen to those little instincts.”

            Layla nodded. 

            “Maybe it’s those wards you have.  Maybe you’re just better at seeing through this kind of stuff.  Either way, it’s a good thing you found me.”

            “Guess I should say sorry for trying to knock your head off.”

            “Well, there’s nothing to do now but wait and see if we cease to exist. I’d say that calls for getting determinedly drunk.  So if you have another bottle around her somewhere, I’ll gladly accept a drink as an apology.”

            Bobby chuckled and opened the bottom desk drawer with the hand not constrained by Layla’s grip on his arm.  He pulled out another bottle of whiskey and a couple shot glasses, cracking the seal on the lid with his teeth before setting them out and starting to pour.

            “So what you said…about saving Dean, you really mean that?” Bobby asked idly as he extended a shot glass, full to the brim.

            Layla accepted the glass with grateful smile.  She chewed her lower lip pensively for a moment then nodded.

            Bobby’s brow rose in mild surprise.  “Not saying that’s a bad thing…or a good thing necessarily, but why?  You hardly knew him.”

            “I could give you lots of reasons.  Because he’s a good guy.  Because I owe them both my life.  Because what happened wasn’t right or fair and this isn’t how the world’s supposed to be...” she hesitated and raised the glass expectantly.  When Bobby raised his, they took their shots in unison before Layla continued.  “Mostly it’s because Sam needs him.  If there’s anything this fresh hell of invisibility taught me, it’s that no one should be alone, not completely, and especially not doing this job.  Too bad I won’t remember, I guess.”

            Bobby frowned and extended the bottle to fill her glass again. 

            “That’s the best case scenario.  Sam may just kill that bastard, leaving things as they are.  What then?”

            Layla shrugged and threw back the shot.  “Worst case scenario, we got revenge and that tricky fucker won’t hurt anyone else.  We can worry about how to fix me and bring Dean back after we know Sam’s okay.”

            The older hunter nodded, took his shot and opened his mouth to respond but Layla never got to hear his reply.  It was as if someone reached in her mind and shut down all her senses with the gentle flick of a switch.

* * * * *

            Layla gasped and jerked upright.  She looked around frantically, heart hammering against her ribcage like a frantic captured animal.  She was in bed…in her motel room…in….her mind struggled to place the memory…in Flagstaff. 

            She raised a hand blearily to rub at her eyes and almost gave herself a concussion as the hard plaster of the cast on her arm collided with her forehead. 

            _What the hell?_   She’d completely forgotten about her broken arm.  She shook her head slowly, trying to piece together what had happened.  This wasn’t where she’d expected to wake up for some reason.  She winced and switched hands, rubbing the spot on her head gingerly as she peered at the bedside clock.  5:30 a.m. exactly. 

            She frowned as she tried to get her sleepy mind to focus on whatever thought was nagging at it.  She closed her eyes and was instantly bombarded by images: wrestling and then drinking with Bobby, calling Sam from Kinsey’s, facing the Trickster…being completely forgotten.  The scenes flashed by in a blur, like a dream that’s quickly losing its coherence but rather than continuing to crumble and fade, the images seemed to solidify the more she examined them; and the more she studied them, the more of them there seemed to be.

            It began to dawn on Layla that she had six full months of memories since she’d last fallen asleep in this bed.  It wasn’t like a dream where time had passed unnoticed, she remembered the minutes dragging by, the interminable search for a real lead, the dozens of towns and libraries and interviews, even the bad dinners and gross motel showers.  It was all there.  And then she remembered the gut-wrenching pain of the phone-call from Sam and her brow knotted in confusion.  She glanced at the clock again then grabbed her cell phone and checked the date.

            It was Wednesday.  Sam hadn’t called her until Thursday…which meant they’d gone all the way back.  Her heart started to pound again but it was in elation now as she realized that going back to Wednesday morning meant that everything had worked.  It hadn’t been a dream.  Dean had died but now he hadn’t; he was alive and Sam wasn’t alone. 

            Layla smiled and let herself fall back on the pillows in relief.  She took a deep breath as she replayed the events again.  It had all happened…and now it hadn’t.  So why did she still remember?

* * * * *

            The sky was clearing in Broward County; the last of the storm clouds which had been hovering over the area, trapped in their course by Sam’s eternal Tuesday, were fleeing north.  The Impala chased their shadows up the highway, her occupants riding in silence.  Dean would occasionally cast a curious, worried glance at this brother from the corner of his eye but Sam stared mutely out the passenger window, jaw set in a thoughtful sullen frown. 

            Sam watched the scenery gliding by, replaying the events of the last 48 hours….although 24 of those hours hadn’t happened now, or six months, depending on how you looked at it.  He didn’t know what to tell his brother.  How do you explain something like that?  How do you convey six months of searching and hunting, trying to act broken but not break, until blind hope and stubbornness are the only things that pry you out of bed in the morning? 

            And then there was Layla.  Should he even tell Dean what she had done for him?  Sam wasn’t even completely sure what she _had_ done at the end.  He knew she’d devoted six diligent months to helping his search but for some reason, when he tried to think about her at the end of that span, everything got hazy.  All Sam really remembered was waiting for a signal from her and then receiving that cryptic but telling message from Bobby.  He did remember the message.  What had Bobby meant about staring down another gun for them?  Unfortunately, he couldn’t ask Bobby now.

            He picked at those memories for a while longer and found the piece that was bothering him: he had been waiting for a sign because _Kinsey_ had told him it was coming; Sheriff Theresa McKinsey, Layla’s bolt-hole and partner-in-crime, whose name he’d never heard before but somehow knew now.  He couldn’t even remember the first time they’d spoken but he realized he could remember bits and pieces of other conversations.  Somehow, he had whole swaths of information about the woman, including how to get in touch with her.  He filed that away as definitely useful but possibly troublesome if Layla found out he knew without providing the information herself. 

            And what about Layla?  Did she even remember what had happened or had she, like Dean, defaulted to the memories of that original Tuesday, waking up this morning none the wiser?  If she didn’t remember, maybe it was better to leave her out of the story.  He could only imagine how strange it would be hearing someone tell a story about six months of your life that you hadn’t lived. 

            He realized he’d sighed audibly when his brother’s voice dragged him from his thoughts.

            “What’s up, Sam?  You’ve been wearing your mopey face all morning.  It’s like a clown kicked your puppy or something.”

            “I don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered; and he didn’t, at least, not until he’d had more time to think everything over, especially what the Trickster had said at the end. 

            “C’mon,” Dean dragged the syllables out goadingly, trying to distract his brother and ease some of the tension that seemed to be rolling off of him in waves.  “Cheer up, Sam.  It’s Wednesday.  There’s no sign of another Tuesday for almost a week.  We’re headed out of Bro. Co. and I’m alive.  It’s a good day so why the bitchface?”

            “I said I don’t want to talk about it,” Sam repeated sharply.

            “Alright, Princess.  You don’t gotta be so damn sensitive,” Dean grumbled.

            “Fine, Dean.  You want to talk?  Let’s talk,” Sam snapped and swiveled on the bench seat to face his brother.  “Why don’t you tell me what’s up with you?”

            Dean frowned at his brother suspiciously, flicking his eyes between the road and Sam. 

            “What are you talking about?  I’m not the one being all pouty.  _I_ don’t look like I spent all morning sucking on a lemon.”

            “Dean, I have literally had almost a year’s worth of Tuesdays to watch you.  I’ve seen you react to every possible situation so trust me when I say I noticed some things, like when the hell did you start rocking out to Asia?”

            Dean laughed and shrugged dismissively.  “It’s a good song.  I stand by that.”

            Sam stared dubiously at his brother for a long moment but allowed “Heat of the Moment” to slide as he moved on to the next point.  “Ok.  Then for hundreds of Tuesdays, you walk down the same street, bump into the same cute girl and only one time, when all the clues just happened to align, did you actually go back and talk to her?  And then all you did was take a flyer?  We’re talking about you, Dean…” Sam caught his brother’s eye meaningfully as he repeated himself in a doubtful tone, “…you.”

            “Sam, I have literally no idea what you’re talking about…”

            “Maybe not literally but you know what I’m saying.  That’s not like you.  You weren’t…or haven’t been yourself for weeks before we came here.  You haven’t been since…”

            “Sam…” Dean interjected warningly. 

            “No.  Fuck that.  You’ve been different since we left Ohio, since Layla.”         

            “I don’t want to talk about it, Sam.”

            “Oh. So suddenly those words mean something?”

            Dean glared at his brother.  “It’s none of your business, Sam, and it’s got nothing to do with this.”

            “It’s got everything to do with this, Dean,” Sam snapped.  “She saved you!”

            Dean looked over at his brother in guarded surprise, eyebrows raised questioningly; Sam continued in a frustrated tone, gesturing uncertainly as the words tumbled out.

            “…or she helped me save you …I don’t know.  It’s all kind of…blurry.”

            Dean scowled again but he cast the expression on the road ahead rather than his brother.  His voice when he spoke a few moments later was carefully measured. 

            “What are you talking about, Sam?  You caught the Trickster on Tuesday.  He said “Let it be Wednesday” and it was…I never died and we hauled ass out of town.  You practically held my hand all the way to the car.”

            “No…well, yes…but not really,” Sam said with another heavy sigh.  “Look.  The Trickster made it Wednesday but then he killed you anyway, to prove his point about it being inevitable, I guess.”

            “Um…Sam.  I’m not dead.  Never have been…well, okay, except for that time I pretty much was but that….”

            “It hasn’t happened now,” Sam interrupted impatiently.  “I mean it did but the Trickster undid it.”

            “Ok.  Then so what?  The result’s the same: I’m alive.  What’s that have to do with Layla?” Dean asked in annoyance.

            “Six months, Dean.”

            “What?”

            “That’s how long you were dead.”

            The purr of the engine and the droning buzz of the Impala’s tires on the tarmac rolled in to fill the void of sound that Sam’s words summoned like a spell.  When Dean didn’t respond after a long moment, Sam continued quietly: 

            “And that whole time, Layla tracked him too.  She never stopped or gave up and in the end, she got me a message that told me what I was really up against…‘cause the Trickster was using Bobby’s face.”

              Dean still didn’t look at Sam; he propped his elbow on the window and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  How the hell were you supposed to take that kind of information?  To him, it was just another day.  There had been a Tuesday, now there was Wednesday.  Sure, Tuesday had been a little short but that was far from the strangest thing that had happened to him.  Hell, liquor had the same effect occasionally.  Now this.  It was almost too big to wrap his head around. 

            _She’d really spent six months trying to…what?  Get revenge …or bring him back?_   Dean’s stomach twisted at the last thought.

            “So how’d all that happen, Sam?” Dean asked accusingly.  “How do you know what she was doing?”

            “Because I asked for her help,” Sam winced slightly as he spoke the admission, anticipating an outburst from his brother.  The muscles in Dean’s jaw worked silently but for the moment he refrained from reacting beyond tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

            “I had to, Dean,” Sam continued.  I couldn’t use anyone the Trickster might know about. No one really knew that we know her and she lays low for a living…and it worked.”

            Dean shook his head, a stern expression settling on his face. 

            “And this is exactly why we’re not bringing her in on the Colt,” he said, anticipating the direction his brother was going to steer the conversation.

            “What?  Why?”

            “Because she’ll get sucked in.  She’ll try to fix it….and that’s only gonna end bad for her.”

            “Dean, she hid from the Trickster for six months.”

            “No, Sam.  Better that I just drive off into the sunset,” Dean said humorlessly.

            Sam rolled his eyes.  “You’re not the Lone Ranger, Dean.”

            A small smile curled the corner of Dean’s mouth though his eyes were touched with melancholy as he muttered, “There’s worse things to be, I guess.”

            As soon as Sam opened his mouth to speak, the mechanical sound of his phone ringing cut off his reply.  Sam fished the device from his pocket and swallowed nervously when he saw the number.  He looked apprehensively at his brother.

            “What?” Dean asked, seeing Sam’s expression, though he was afraid he already knew.

            “It’s Layla.”

            “So help me, Sam, not one fucking word.”

            “If she’s calling _now_ , chances are she remembers something.  I owe it to her to let her know what happened.  We both do.”

            “Fine but nothing about Bela or the Colt or my deal or you can walk to the next job.”

            Sam frowned but nodded grudgingly as he flipped open the phone and lifted it to his ear.

            “Hey…Sam?”  Layla’s hurried words leapt across the line before Sam had a chance to speak.

            “Hey, Layla.” Sam replied in a light but guarded tone, touched with a hint of confusion.  Both the brothers could hear her sigh loudly in relief.  Dean rolled his neck and fixed his stare back on the road ahead, jaw set stubbornly as if trying to block out the conversation. 

            “Sam, you have no idea how good it is to talk to you,”

            The younger Winchester laughed, watching Dean’s reaction cautiously from the corner of his eye.  “I know what you mean.”

            “No offense but you really, really don’t.”

            Sam’s brow furrowed and he began to ask what she meant but Layla cut him off in a rush.

            “Is your brother…?” she trailed off apprehensively. 

            “Yeah,” Sam said reassuringly.  “Yeah.  Dean’s right here.”  Sam glanced over at Dean again to see his brother watching him surreptitiously.  He shot his brother a questioning look and gestured to the phone.  Dean only shook his head and resumed glaring at the horizon. 

            “Good…good,” Layla said.  “What about you, Sam?  You alright?”

            “Yeah. I’m okay, just a little…confused.  I got Bobby’s message but he really didn’t say what happened.  What _did_ happen?”

            “It’s a long story, Sam, but I ran into the Trickster before he came for you.  He hit me with some hoodoo so I couldn’t get ahold of you directly,” Layla supplied guardedly.

            “Like what?  Did he curse your cell phone?” Sam asked teasingly, trying to lower her guard and draw out more information.

            “Uh…yeah, something like that.  Like I said, it’s a long story.  I’ll give you the full rundown next time I see you guys.”

            “When’s that gonna be?”

            “Sam…” Dean growled warningly under his breath but Sam ignored him.

             “Not sure,” Layla said.  “I got some things to wrap up here in Flagstaff then on to the next job, I guess.  Maybe it’ll bring me to your neck of the woods.”

            “Yeah.  Sounds good,” Sam replied with a thoughtful frown.  There was no point in pressing the issue, especially with his brother listening.  Given Dean’s current mood, Sam wouldn’t be surprised if the older Winchester tried to throw the phone out the window if something was said that he didn’t want shared.  “You just gotta tell me one thing: how’d you convince Bobby you were really you?”

            Layla paused before answering elusively:  “C’mon, Sam.  A girl’s gotta have some secrets.”

            “Fine.  I get it.  It’s a long story,” Sam repeated with overdramatic acquiescence, biting down on his frustrated curiosity. 

            “Bingo.”

            “Well, when you tell Kinsey the story, tell her I said thanks,” Sam said with a smirk, enjoying both the confused look that Dean shot his direction and the shocked silence that echoed over the phone line.  A burst of laughter flooded through a moment later.

            “Yeah, well, tell Bobby I said thanks for not shooting me,” Layla responded in a “two-can-play-at-that-game” tone of voice.

            “I will but that might be a little confusing if I can’t explain it,” Sam chuckled when he saw Dean’s perplexed frown deepen into a curious, annoyed scowl. 

            “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.  You’re a smart guy,” Layla said, playfully sidestepping the unspoken question.  “Anyway, you guys take care of yourselves.  My head can’t take any more time loops and tricksters so tell your brother to not get himself killed again for a while, ok?  Same goes for you.”

            Sam grimaced at Layla’s choice of words and looked over at Dean.  Dean’s face slid into an expressionless mask but Sam could hear the leather of the Impala’s steering wheel creak under his white-knuckled grip. 

            “Yeah…yeah, me neither.   I’ll let him know.” Sam said, trying to keep his voice light.  “Keep in touch, Layla.”

            “I will, Sam.  Count on it.”

            Sam was mildly surprised by the conviction in Layla’s voice as the line clicked off on the tail of her words.  Sam glanced at his brother but Dean avoided any attempt at conversation by reaching over and flicking on the radio pointedly. 

            A shiver coursed down Sam’s spine as Metallica’s familiar orchestration of sharp chords and crunchy reverb billowed out of the Impala’s speakers.  He tried to dismiss the sinking suspicion that the Trickster was getting one last word in as the radio cut in directly at the chorus, letting the sinister words echo through the Impala:

            _“…For whom the bell tolls…time marches on…”_

* * * * * * * * * *

[Want more?  The first installment of the sequel, [Lonely Hearts Club,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6121087) is available now!  Check it out!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and a special thanks to everyone who left kudos! It's very inspiring to know that people are enjoying. 
> 
> As I mentioned in the comments, this was intended to be a short, fun segue to move forward in the timeline to the next full-length "episode." [I also needed to buy some time to figure out the situation for the next one and this was mostly complete already. Heh.]
> 
> Hope to hear from you here or on the next one!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I'm definitely trying something new here. I've never done any kind of episode internal writing before but I just couldn't pass up a chance to play with the Trickster...and this gap in the narrative always left me wondering.


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